Mr. C. Cow went on a reunion tour this weekend. When I think of a reunion tour I, usually, think about rock bands who inform us that they this will be their last “Hurrah!” but continue it on for the next thirty plus years. When I asked Marslean she stated that “Didn’t (insert band here) do a whole final tour thing for the past twenty plus years?”. When Mr. C. Cow says the word “reunion”, it just involves a bunch of his cow friends hanging out in a field, listening to the music of their generation, and talking about their jobs.
Mr. C. Cow took me to his friend reunion as his plus one. Had a lovely conversation with an accountant who told me I need to “plan for my future”. Mr. C. told him that our future included a stop at the candy store after the party. I don’t think that’s the kind of future the accountant was talking about.
I’ve never been to a party in a muddy field before. It had rained the night before so I had issues with my footwear. If I took more than three steps in a row my shoe would stay in the mud and I would keep on going. A delightful bovine retrieved my shoes for me on multiple occasions. They even had to pull me out of the mud when I got stuck. Being short in a field full of muck is hard work. It sure was a lot of work for my retrieving bovine buddy.
I’m glad that Mr. C. Cow got to hang out with old pals. Get to see what everyone is up to these days, eat lots of food, dance, and have a great time. Next time I’m invited to a party in a muddy field I’ll be sure to wear the proper foot gear.
Photos taken by me of a few of my neighborhood cows. They were polite enough to pose for pictures.
We dig living in the country. Rolling hills. Dirt roads. Mr. C. Cow owns a pick up truck. What we’re not into is country music. I’m not a big fan of singing about our dirt roads or how my pick up truck makes me slightly more attractive to others. Mr. C. might be, slightly, more interested than my non-interest because I have heard him singing about dirt roads while in the shower. With this said, we just visited a country-western bar.
It wasn’t a planned trip. More like a stop at a gas station next to the bar trip. As I’m pumping gas, I lost track of Mr. C. Cow. When I finished paying, I noticed a cow wearing spurs walk into the bar. I don’t know how many cows own spurs (I didn’t even know Mr. C. had any!) so I had to chase after him.
Having stubby little otter legs, chasing isn’t a quick thing to do. It’s more of a creeping movement rather than a rapid follow. By the time I made it in through the saloon doors, Mr. C. Cow was country line dancing with a duck. If you’ve never seen a duck country line dance with a cow then you haven’t really lived!
I wasn’t too surprised that Mr. C. Cow knew how to country line dance. I’ve seen him shimmy, electric slide, electric boogie, and boogie electric woogie. Country line dancing was right up his alley. The surprising thing was the fact that Mr. C. owned spurs. I didn’t even know he knew what spurs were. We’re talking about someone who thought a ten gallon hat had to hold that many gallons in liquids to earn the name. It doesn’t and my living room rug can show you just where all of the liquid goes. A cow who thought the phrase “Hold Your Horses” was a literal thing. Country line dancing….not a surprise. Spurs….super (and dangerously sharp) surprise.
I’m gong to let Mr. C. Cow have some fun dancing. I’ll just get a drink from the bartender, take a deep breath, and make a mental list of spur rules if he’s going to wear them around. My living room rugs can’t take anymore abuse.