HLGStrider
12-31-2002, 11:21 PM
I still remember the night... Oh how it sends chills down my spine! Nothing could erase the horror of it, the sheer terror of a hundred... hungry... cows.
I always spent summers on my grandparents' dairy form. It wasn't exactly Disneyland, but it had its perks, for instance acres upon acres of pasture, a creepy old barn, and about a thousand, multicolored barn cats. The barn cats were my favorites. I'd sit beside them and tell all my secrets, knowing that no one is more trustworthy than an old barn cat.
Last year, however, the Summer started off on the wrong foot. Everything about it was just... well... weird.
"It's been a dry year," my grandpa commented as he picked me up in his old farm truck. "The cows don't like dry years."
"Do they like rainy years?" I inquired.
"No, they don't really like them either. If it gets boggy enough they'll sink up to their udders in mud. That makes them awfully irritable."
"I imagine it would." We left it at that, and Grandpa never expounded on exactly how little the cows liked dry years.
He hadn't been kidding. There wasn't a damp space on the entire farm. All the barn cats looked dusty, and the cows were worse. They'd gone from black and white to gray and brown. What made things worse was for the cows was that the well had dried up. All that was left to drink was milk. Even the cows were drinking milk, for Grandpa had filled their watering troughs with it. There is nothing more humiliating for a grown cow than having to drink milk. They hung their heads in shame.
The fields crackled. The grass had dried up long before. In the middle of July the last of the hay turned to dust. The cows stared at us, open mouthed. A wild look crept into their eyes. These were some very hungry cows.
At first Grandpa and I staved off their starvation. We searched far and wide for suitable fodder, pulling weeds from the roadside and stripping bark from trees. The cows devoured this disagreeable substitute with never a moo of protest, but the look in their eyes grew ravenous.
The stress was building, so we fed the wood pile to the mulcher and then shoveled the wood pulp into the cows' troughs. It took the veterinarian a week to desplinter all 100 cow tongues. That was the final blow.
I was lying in my bed when I heard the first noise: a low, menacing moo. I stiffened. Somewhere out in the darkness a cowbell clanked. Then came the stomp of four hundred hooves, all treading their way to the farm house. I dared to peak out the window. We were surrounded by 100 starving bovines, all licking their chops.
"Grandma! Grandpa!" I shouted, jumping from bed. "We're under attack!" Grandma and Grandpa already knew. They stood in their pajamas on the front porch.
"Moo!" the cows cried in unison. "Moo!"
"What do you want?" asked my grandpa.
"Moo!" said the cows.
"Do you want money?" wept my grandma.
"Moo!" said the cows, shaking their dusty heads from side to side.
"Do you want the house?" Grandpa swallowed.
"Moo!" said the cows, again shaking their dusty heads from side to side.
"Do you want... food?" Grandma burst out.
"Moo!" The cows gave an enthusiastic nod.
From that time on my grandparents' house was a restaurant, my grandma was the cook, and grandpa and I were waiters.
We served the cows apple pie and chicken soup. They ate all my grandma's preserves and devoured every single chocolate chip cookie.
Soon Grandma began to worry. We were running out of food and the hungry cows still were mooing for more!
"What will they do when it's gone? They're merciless. They'll never let us leave long enough to even go to the grocery store!" she stated. This was true. The cows kept us under lock and key. They hadn't allowed any of us to step off the farm.
"We just have to keep feeding them until they are full," sighed Grandpa.
"Moo!" yelled the cows.
I always spent summers on my grandparents' dairy form. It wasn't exactly Disneyland, but it had its perks, for instance acres upon acres of pasture, a creepy old barn, and about a thousand, multicolored barn cats. The barn cats were my favorites. I'd sit beside them and tell all my secrets, knowing that no one is more trustworthy than an old barn cat.
Last year, however, the Summer started off on the wrong foot. Everything about it was just... well... weird.
"It's been a dry year," my grandpa commented as he picked me up in his old farm truck. "The cows don't like dry years."
"Do they like rainy years?" I inquired.
"No, they don't really like them either. If it gets boggy enough they'll sink up to their udders in mud. That makes them awfully irritable."
"I imagine it would." We left it at that, and Grandpa never expounded on exactly how little the cows liked dry years.
He hadn't been kidding. There wasn't a damp space on the entire farm. All the barn cats looked dusty, and the cows were worse. They'd gone from black and white to gray and brown. What made things worse was for the cows was that the well had dried up. All that was left to drink was milk. Even the cows were drinking milk, for Grandpa had filled their watering troughs with it. There is nothing more humiliating for a grown cow than having to drink milk. They hung their heads in shame.
The fields crackled. The grass had dried up long before. In the middle of July the last of the hay turned to dust. The cows stared at us, open mouthed. A wild look crept into their eyes. These were some very hungry cows.
At first Grandpa and I staved off their starvation. We searched far and wide for suitable fodder, pulling weeds from the roadside and stripping bark from trees. The cows devoured this disagreeable substitute with never a moo of protest, but the look in their eyes grew ravenous.
The stress was building, so we fed the wood pile to the mulcher and then shoveled the wood pulp into the cows' troughs. It took the veterinarian a week to desplinter all 100 cow tongues. That was the final blow.
I was lying in my bed when I heard the first noise: a low, menacing moo. I stiffened. Somewhere out in the darkness a cowbell clanked. Then came the stomp of four hundred hooves, all treading their way to the farm house. I dared to peak out the window. We were surrounded by 100 starving bovines, all licking their chops.
"Grandma! Grandpa!" I shouted, jumping from bed. "We're under attack!" Grandma and Grandpa already knew. They stood in their pajamas on the front porch.
"Moo!" the cows cried in unison. "Moo!"
"What do you want?" asked my grandpa.
"Moo!" said the cows.
"Do you want money?" wept my grandma.
"Moo!" said the cows, shaking their dusty heads from side to side.
"Do you want the house?" Grandpa swallowed.
"Moo!" said the cows, again shaking their dusty heads from side to side.
"Do you want... food?" Grandma burst out.
"Moo!" The cows gave an enthusiastic nod.
From that time on my grandparents' house was a restaurant, my grandma was the cook, and grandpa and I were waiters.
We served the cows apple pie and chicken soup. They ate all my grandma's preserves and devoured every single chocolate chip cookie.
Soon Grandma began to worry. We were running out of food and the hungry cows still were mooing for more!
"What will they do when it's gone? They're merciless. They'll never let us leave long enough to even go to the grocery store!" she stated. This was true. The cows kept us under lock and key. They hadn't allowed any of us to step off the farm.
"We just have to keep feeding them until they are full," sighed Grandpa.
"Moo!" yelled the cows.