They came home. All three of them, and a little bull calf named Shaggy. These are our Highland Cattle, the simple beginnings of our little herd, our fold. A humble start. But enough for now.
These are nice cows. They come to their name or the shake of a bucket. They eat out of my hand, slobbering all over with the fat rough tongue. And their sweet furry faces…
Just home from their past couple months hanging out with the “real” cows, and their big bad bull, so that next year we’ll have a couple calves of the Highland/Charolais cross. Fuzzy white calves, perchance?
Our furry Zen Masters. They are content, clear, trouble free, wanting for nothing. Wouldn’t you be too in that field of green?
Of course, I just get to watch and enjoy them on pasture. The boys and our friends who had been pasturing them in the valley are the ones who had to separate them from the bull and other cows and calves, and load them in the trailer to bring them back home… Perhaps not as idyllic as this scene before me now.
Ah, but they do come home. Alas, just wait, and it all turns out alright, doesn’t it? And in the meanwhile, we can run around and fret and fight, as I know I do at times. Or lay back in the tall grass, enjoy the summer breeze, chew the cud, and think about little more than beautiful world around you.