From the Other Side of the Fence

I could see him from a distance. We had known each other for years and though he stops over occasionally, I have never really learned to enjoy his company.

He was well built and a lady killer. Because he didn’t believe in monogamous relationships, he fathered offspring with many different females. Who knows how many youngsters he had around the county.

I walked slowly in his direction; this was going to be a confrontation. He was on my turf this time. I had my eyes locked on his, waiting for his next move. It was like two gunfighters watching for the other to draw.

I stepped closer until we were no more than ten feet apart. He had not moved an inch. Though he was shorter, he outweighed me by a lot. I realized that if he came at me, I would only get one good hit before he would have me on my back. The only sign of fear that I saw in him was the drool dripping down both sides of his mouth and snot hanging from his unpolished nose ring.

“Jake,” I said in a low voice, trying my best Clint Eastwood impression. “Get out of my yard, you stupid bull!“

I jumped toward him, waving my arms in the air. The 1800-pound Hereford leapted backwards, spun around, did a small loop in the yard and jumped the fence back into his field. This has happened far too many times.

Jake is owned by Russell, who lives kitty-corner from me across the cow pasture. Jake was purchased for the sole purpose of keeping the cows happy and providing calves. He has no other obligation or purpose and I believe that as long as he keeps his end of the bargain, he won’t have to worry about the butcher for a while.

Russell raises animals, but you would not call him a rancher. He has a small lot where his house is located. He also has several sheds for his animals. His animals include eight Hereford cows, some with calves, and Jake the Hereford bull. He has at least two pigs, at one time a peacock, six chickens and eight free roaming guinea hens.

Guinea Hens

The guinea fowl are an odd bird. With tight fitting silver and black feathers and a bald head, which is way too small for its large body, they roam the field in a tight group, head down, looking for bugs. The first time they are seen in the field, most people can’t figure out what they are looking at. They are in the same family as chickens, turkeys, and quail but they originate from Sub-Saharan Africa. Like peacocks, they are used on farms as watchdogs. Constantly on the lookout for eagles, hawks, foxes, coyotes, and dogs, they wander the field in a noisy group. When they detect a predator, they make a warbling racket and run for the deep brush, the barn or they will fly into a tree. They have also been known to surround a predator and peck it mercilessly until it slithers, runs, or flies from the field.

Since Russell has no land of his own to graze the cows, he has made a deal with the owner of the five-acre field behind me to graze his cows in exchange for locker beef each year. If Russell was a real rancher, he would fertilize the field, cut the thistles, and spray the blackberries to give the cows something nutritious to eat. As it is, the five acres can’t support nine full grown cows. They eat the grass down and starve.

Now, on my side of the fence is a half-acre of field grass which I mow each week. The grass is thick and three inches tall and to Russell’s cows . . . lunch. They come over to the fence line, push their heads under the bottom of the fence wire and eat as much of the grass they can reach. This also tears up the bottom of the fence. They then lean their heads and necks over the top of the fence and push down until they can eat from that angle which ruins the top of the fence and pushes it down so low that Jake can jump over and graze in my yard. In the springtime, when the soil is wet, I find Jake’s hoof prints punched all over my lawn and drain field. Holes, which before I can mow, must be filled with dirt.

What is Russell’s excuse? “Well, you don’t maintain your fence line,” he complains.

“Wait a minute, Russell. You’re the one who has the cows. Why should I spend $500.00 to maintain a fence that your cows will tear down because there is nothing for them to eat on your side of the fence?”

It’s an ongoing bone of contention.

The field was at one time a working orchard. At least 100 years ago, someone planted about ten different varieties of cherry trees and multiple pear trees. During picking season, the owner would put out a sign, have ladders available, and neighborhood folks would stop by and pick by the pound for canning. I say the trees are 100 years old because my home and the cedars planted around it are that old and the orchard was once part of my property. The fruit trees now are full of dead limbs and hollow trunks. Some have tipped over and lay on the ground still alive.

Late June and around the 4th of July the cherries are ripe and as a tradition, I put my step ladder over the fence and walk out through the thistles and cow pies to pick a few bags of the varieties. The owner of the field doesn’t care. In the 35 years I have lived here, I have only seen him in the field once. Russell doesn’t complain because he knows I’ll yell at him about my fence.

Sometimes the field is empty of cattle, but the cows come running from the barn out of curiosity and surround me. This day though it was hot and dry. The cows were lying under the cherry trees to stay cool. The flies were thick on their heads and backs. Their tails swatted the flies with no effect. But, like the oxpecker or tick eater birds which are found eating bugs off the African rhinos or giraffes, Russell’s guinea hens found ample food on the bodies of the cows and walked back and forth on the snoozing cows eating the flies.

I checked out the flavor of the cherries hanging from a Bing variety tree and finding them still slightly tart, I walked over to a Rainier tree. The cherries were large, dark red and sweet. I started filling my bags from what I could reach from the ground. The thing about fruit trees in a cattle field is that the cows eat the lower limbs and leaves as high up as they can reach. For me to reach the cherries, I had to jump. It was much simpler to climb up into the old tree to pick the fruit.

The curious cows got up from their shade tree and lumbered over with the guinea hens riding on their backs. Jake led the way. Now, high out on one of the limbs, I could see the cows surrounding the trunk underneath me.

With the bag in my right hand, which was also holding tightly to an upper limb, I picked bunches of the hanging cherries with my left hand. Stepping further out on the limb of the ancient tree, I heard a sound that has struck fear in the hearts of many an arborist, the cracking of wood. I felt the limb start to settle. Looking back toward the trunk, I could see the crack in the limb I was standing on, rapidly growing larger.

I could toss the bag of my precious handpicked cherries before the limb snapped and dive for the trunk or I could . . . snap! . . . too late . . . I was going down.

For the first five feet, I pin-balled off the lower limbs as I dropped. After that, I got spit out the bottom of the canopy and it was only a mere eight-foot free fall to the ground. Luckily, and I do say luckily, my fall was broken by my straddle landing on the back of Jake.

I have never tried riding a mechanical bull, but I can identify with rough stock bull riders at rodeos. I wish that I had been officially timed.

Jake, thinking that a Puma or cougar had dropped out of the tree onto his back, took off across the field in a panic. With his hind legs, he bucked his rear end high in the air. Snot and slobber sprayed in all directions. He bellowed with each kick. Out of my peripheral vision I could see Russell on his porch watching with binoculars. (Hmm, maybe he also had a stopwatch.) Had I been sitting facing the head instead of the tail, I think I would have made it further, but alas after only forty feet I was tossed off Jake’s back, onto my back, in a large patch of thistles.

With the wind clearly knocked out of my lungs, I lay still, systematically checking off body parts that weren’t broken. Raising my right arm, I noted that my grip was still tight around the top of my bag.

“Ah, I didn’t lose any cherries.” This was a reason to rejoice.

Then, lying on my back staring at the blue sky, which may or may not have had bluebirds circling my head, I heard it – the light rustling of grass – the warbling. Could it be angels who sing in a strange tongue? Are these the sounds of heaven?

Yes, they were surrounding me – big fat ugly angels! Eight of them and they were spreading their wings. Oh, this is so nice.

Hold on, one slobbered on me.

How terribly sad. To have a near death experience only to find that when I followed the bright light, I was met at heaven’s gate by eight cows being ridden by balding, pin-headed, guinea hens. That’s not exactly what I was expecting.

Hearing the commotion in the field, the pigs came running to join the fray. Slowly raising myself up off the ground, I hobbled through the crowd back toward the fence, not realizing I had created a hole in the bottom of the cherry bag during the landing. All the way back to the fence I was followed by the pigs and the guinea hens who were eagerly eating the cherries draining from the bag.

Climbing over the fence, I hobbled across the lawn toward the back door of my house. I only paused a moment as I passed Jake, contently eating the grass in my backyard, hooves punched deeply into the moist dirt of my lawn.

“You’ve got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” I said to him in my best Clint Eastwood growl.

“Now I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to go into the house, sit down, take two Advil and drink a can of cola. Then I’m going to step outside and kick your butt.”

Jake lifted his head, snorted and took a step in my direction.

“Go ahead punk. Make my day!”

I gave him a “Dirty Hairy.”

It was good. It was bad. It was ugly.  I don’t suspect Jake will be back in my yard anytime soon.

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