Running with Cows

Last year I purchased a pair of leopard print loafers from Country Road. They are possibly the most amazingly comfortable shoes I have ever owned. These shoes are also greatly admired by others when I take them out on an adventure. Country Road have released them again this year and you can check them out here.

As great as they are, there is one problem with them.

They are absolutely no good to wear when you are trying to outrun a herd of two dozen Angus black cattle who are trying to kill you.

So, I am currently at Mrs. Webster’s farm near the township of Bigga.

Every single time she texts me “I am going to the far……” I text back “YES!” because it is a place of calm, beauty, day drinking and naps in front of the fire after day drinking. It is lovely. We arrived yesterday afternoon, unpacked the car and Mrs. Webster, Ms. Rawnsley and yours truly gathered up the four dogs under our charge, and took to the fields for some fresh air and incidental exercise.

Over the hills we strode, opening gates and closing them behind us because that is what good farmers do. The dogs raced across the paddocks which was a ridiculous sight, considering that they are all designer mongrels, a mixture of poodle, maltese, shutzu and other breeds that are not really sensible. City dogs, you could say. Sniffing up unusual scents, racing off after imaginary bunnies, that type of stuff.

We hit the next hill and saw the herd of gorgeous black Angus cattle.

“Hello Moo Cows!” I bellowed at them, my cries bouncing around the deserted valley. I gave them a wave as well, and they all looked up from their grazing and set their stare on our motley crew.

The head of the herd, an excellent breeder called Olive, began to moo and then began to move. And then they all began to move and pretty soon their walk turned into a trot and moments later, a full blown run.

“Stampede!” I screamed. We all turned on our heels and started running back to the gate which would have been about 200 metres away. 200 Metres doesn’t sound like much now, but the terrain was difficult with dusty plains littered with huge cow patties and dangerous looking burrs the size of serving platters. And then there was the shoe problem.

My loafers were not up to the task, but Ms. Rawnsley was wearing gum boots while Mrs. Webster was wearing a pair of those slip on sheepskin slippers that your grandfather favoured. We are also aged in the 45-53 age bracket, and fitness is not on the top of any of our agendas.

I think if I listened carefully enough, I swear I heard the soundtrack of The Benny Hill show as we ran for our lives towards the gate, with the cows closing in on us fast. The gaggle of dogs were much faster, although once we reached the gate, the smallest of our crew, a shitzu mini-poodle cross by the name of Bella, raced back into the paddock as she saw a bit of cow shit that took her fancy. As she ate it, we screamed at her as the cows closed in.

With Bella back into the safety zone, we all stood there trying to catch our breath, while the cows stopped running and just stared at us.

Sensible Mrs Woog would tell Hysterical Mrs Woog, who seems to have taken up permanent residence these days, that the cows are vegetarian and are used to being hand fed bread as a treat, but in my mind they had gnashing teeth and were blood thirsty for the B positive variety. Hysterical Mrs Woog really needs to spend more time on the farm, to chill the fuck out for a bit.

Have you ever been chased by an animal? Who won?