Aaaand Thennnn... another one.

Jim Wright
July 19, 2016 ·
We had a cow once.


We lived on a YMCA Summer Camp. My dad ran the place as resident manager. And we had a cow.


The cow was an asshole. That's the nature of cows. Sooner or later they're going to get turned into steaks and chops and burger and they've got no incentive to cooperate. They know it. You know it. That's the nature of the beast.


This cow was stubborn as hell.


And you really haven't experienced stubborn until you've seen 1800 pounds of cow dig in its heels.


One day my dad was moving the cow from one pasture to another when it decided it didn't want to go any further.


And it just stopped and nothing we could do would move it.


It just stood there, dull and sullen in the middle of the road, chewing its cud and making cow pies, and it wouldn't goddamned move.


My dad tried everything. Nothing would move that cow.


It just chewed and shit and stared back with its dull cow eyes.


So dad called Old Man Mesic, the farmer who lived across the street. Mesic was this little old wizened guy, like Yoda carved from beef jerky and left to dry in the sun. He chewed and he spit and he swore and he was mean as a snake and he was long, long past the age he should have been farming but he couldn't stand being cooped up and so every day he'd drive his old tractor out in the fields and putter around out there until his wife called my dad to make sure he hadn't gone and killed himself in some creative way among the corn stalks.


Old Man Mesic looked at that cow standing there.


He chewed and considered.


The cow chewed and considered right back.


He spit.


The cow shit.


We waited.


Mesic chewed and spit some more.


The cow looked back, sullen, and chewed a bit more in return. It belched. It farted. Another cow patty appeared, the cow's way of saying screw you. What are you going to do, Yoda?


After a while, Old Man Mesic asked my dad for a rope and tied it into a slip knot.


He put the rope around the cow's neck and gave it a tug.


Nothing. The cow didn't even bother to look at us. Another cow patty appeared. More chewing.


Unperturbed Old Man Mesic smiled his mean little smile and chewed and spit in return.


Go git the tractor, he told my dad.


Mesic hitched the rope to the tractor and gave the stubborn beastie a good long moment to consider what was to come next.


The cow produced another pie from an apparently inexhaustible supply.


Mesic ordered my dad forward at low gear.


The rope slowly tightened. The cow remained steadfast.


Mesic spit.


As the rope tightened around the cow's neck my dad opened his mouth to protest. Mesic was having none of it. We watched in amazement as bovine determination fought against mechanical force.


The rope tightened.


The cow's eyes bulged.


The tractor growled and strained.


Mesic spit again. Keep going, he snarled.


We watched, my brother and I, in horrified fascination. Surely the cow would give up, what creature would be so stubborn that it wouldn't take a single step forward even to breathe? Surely the tractor would fail, the motor howled, the front tires bounced with the strain of 1800 pounds of meat pulling the mighty machine backward. Surely the rope would break. Surely Mesic's will would fail.


Something.


But the contest went on and on.


And on.


The cow's eyes bulged.


The tractor squalled.


Mesic spit furiously and then ...


... the cow's eyes rolled up in its head and it toppled over.


My dad mashed the clutch as Old Man Mesic spit in grim satisfaction and we all stood there staring down at the cow. I swear it had little cartoon X's for eyes and its legs were as stiff as the dead horse in Dean Wormer's Office in the movie Animal House and I was actually picturing that scene and expecting Old Man Mesic to demand a chainsaw next.


Goddamnit, John, my dad yelled, we've killed it!


Mesic bent down.


He sniffed.


He spit.


He loosened the rope.


Ain't dead, he pronounced.


Well Goddamnit, my dad yelled, it sure looks dead.


Mesic stared at my dad for a long moment. Then he spit. And walked around behind the beast where the pie making happened. And he reached down and grabbed the cow's tail in his beef jerky hands and he started CRANKING.


He cranked that tail like he was starting a Model-T (something, given his age, I'm pretty sure he had some experience with).


Nothing. The cow was dead.


My dad, well, my dad was a sailor. I learned some new words that day. Later in my own military career I used them to make Marines blush.


Mesic kept cranking like a kid winding the rubber band on a toy airplane.


My dad swore.


Mesic spit and gave the tail another crank.


Suddenly the cow's eyes popped open. SPROING!


My dad stopped swearing.


My brother and I boggled in fascination.


Mesic continued to crank and he cranked that cow right back up on its feet. Crank. The cow's eyes would go wider and it would rise another inch. Crank. Another inch. And pretty soon the cow was standing alert and eager on its feet. Mesic let go the tail and it, swear to God, spun like the propeller on that toy plane and I expected the cow to take off and fly around the field like a cartoon coyote.


Start the tractor, Mesic commanded.


And when my dad turned over the engine that cow walked forward and stood directly behind the hitch. It seems the cow had found Jesus. And from that day forward, wherever the tractor went, the cow went, eagerly and with great enthusiasm, its little crooked tail wiggling, trying to fly.


And thus, ends the second day of the Republican National Convention.