Of all the friends I have, Rachel is the only one who has to move cattle before I visit. Other friends might lock a barking dog or two in the laundry room, but Rachel relocates 180 head of standing rib roast.
Once a diehard indoor girl, Rachel has been my best bud since eighth grade, when she didn’t even own a goldfish. The closest she came to wildlife was babysitting six feral siblings.
Throughout high school, Rachel never emptied a litter box, let alone mucked a stable. We voted her Most Likely to Stay Indoors.
Then one day, she decided to buy a ranch in Florida and magically morphed into Dale Evans.
When Rachel sets her mind to something, no matter how harebrained, it’s a done deal. One time, she decided to move to Vermont to run a ski lodge, despite a deeply held belief that people who voluntarily careen down snow-covered mountains with their feet nailed to boards are nuts. The downhill crowd swarmed her place. When she found work in New York as an accountant—her only experience being a second cousin who married a bookkeeper—Rachel rose to management. So, when she started collecting trophies for horse breeding about three minutes after she bought the ranch, it didn’t surprise me. That’s my Rachel.
Every time I visit, we take a four-wheeler tour of her 250 cattle-covered acres. She proudly points out every calf, foal, mule, cow patty and hay bale on the landscape.
Cattle don’t lead very interesting lives. They may stampede in movies, but in real life, they mostly eat grass and stare at everything that isn’t a cow. It’s all graze and gaze; graze and gaze, day after day.
Rachel immediately put me to work opening every gate in our path. Since ranches have lots of gates, I felt important.
Like a pro, I swung the gate to the south pasture wide open. That’s when she advised me not to scare the bull. Monitoring my every move were 360 curious eyes—all belonging to enormous, identical animals.
Me: “Which one’s the bull?”
Her: “The 1,600-pound one closest to you.”
About eight feet away, a mountainous beast was staring straight at me. He wasn’t dialing 911, but he still might have been nervous. Maybe he just misplaced his phone. Every muscle in my body and most of my cellulite hardened to steel, so if the frightened fellow charged, at least I wouldn’t crumple. I could go straight into rigor mortis the moment my heart stopped and save time.
Me: “What exactly does a 135-pound near-vegetarian do to scare a bull?”
Her: “He doesn’t know you.”
Me: “Tell him I’ll mail my resume.”
Her: “Just don’t move too fast.”
Me: “I can’t move at all.”
Then Rachel tells me not to fret, because her bulls aren’t usually aggressive.
Me: “Not usually?”
Her: “Well, he’s new. We’re not sure about him.”
That’s another Rachel trait. She has lots of friends, so she doesn’t lose sleep over one or two getting stomped to paste by an animal that might need anger-management classes. That’s my Rachel.
And that’s no bull.
Jan A. Igoe writes from her Little River home when she’s not bringing in the herd. Write Jan at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.