I think I was going to
the dining room in search
of a chair.
You know how it is - you
walk into a room to get
something and then totally
forget what you were looking
for because, looking into
your dining room window,
is an animal the size of a
sofa with an expression
that says, ``Hey! Can someone
come out to play?’’
Yes, a cow looking into
your dining room window
tends to be distracting.
Before we moved to Cooperstown,
we lived in a
tree-lined neighborhood
called East Hill in Pensacola,
Fla. It was a neighborhood
with sidewalks and
bungalows and Queen
Anne-style homes all situated
close enough together
that it was almost possible
to pass the salt from your
table to your neighbor’s just
by opening the window.
Now, I live in a neighborhood
with a road that
winds through a vast valley
and neighbors that are not
at all close to each other. In
winter, when the trees are
bare, I can see one neighbor’s
house easily; the other
neighbor is a distant apparition
across a field.
If I stood on my porch
and yelled out my darkest
confession, neither of them
would be able to understand
what I had said.
The proximity of neighbors
is only the first of
many differences to which
we have grown accustomed
since moving to Upstate
New York.
In our old home, for example,
we never would
have walked into our dining
room, opened the curtain
and seen a cow staring
back at us through the window.
It just wouldn’t have
happened.
But here, where the
neighbor’s livestock live
closer to us than the neighbors
do, it’s just another
country experience.
Of course, that didn’t
keep me from letting out a
scream when I saw that
bull peering into my dining
room, looking for a playmate
or a meal ticket.
Yes. I let out the girliest
of shrieks.
``What is it?’’ my husband
called from the other
room.
By that point, it just felt
silly to be afraid of a cow. I
mean, who gets startled by
one of the world’s most
slow-moving, edible animals?
``Oh nothing,’’ I responded.
``It’s one of the neighbor’s
cows. It’s looking in
the dining room window.’’
My brave husband didn’t
miss a beat. He sprang into
action, rushing out the door
to help herd the cow back to
its pen next door. As soon
as he opened the front door,
the animal rounded the
house to see him. Moments
later, my husband came
back through the front door,
warning me and the children
to stay inside.
Our visitor was not a
cow. He was a bull. And, as
suburban folk who are novices
to this country experience,
what we know about
bulls comes primarily from
watching news clips of men
wearing white shirts and
red scarves running furiously
through the streets of
Pamplona — not a scenario
we wished to repeat.
Suddenly, the bull was
back at the dining room
window. He didn’t look like
a goring menace. He looked
like a cow. He looked like a
creature who is most comfortable
foraging inside his
fence and, knowing that he
had lumbered outside of his
comfort zone, was looking
for someone to help him
find it again.
My husband obliged
him, leading him back to
his fence and his bovine
companions. No one was
gored or trampled.
So yes, we’re still a little
green when it comes to the
country experience. But
we’re learning more every
day.
And the next time I see
livestock looking in my window,
I will not shriek like a
terrified little girl.
You can connect with
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
at www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.com
