A Tale of Escaped CowNots

Son4's head was still buried in its feather pillow, when I heard a high-pitched "baa-baa," sounding all the world to me like a baby CowNot, and followed by a "baroomph-barooph" from the polar bear. 

The CowNots were in the yard.  I shot out the back door but stuck my head back in and hollered, "The goats are here!" hoping against hope that Son3 would move quickly enough to spare Big Bo Pooped the 3-acre trek with the CowNots back to their pasture.

With the help of Pierre and Ruger, I rounded them up and took them back where they belong, and when stepping into their pasture to lead them, I buried one foot — up over the instep — in a cold, watery hole.  Nice.  Not.



I know leather isn't supposed to be washed, but it's not supposed to be plunged into a mud hole either.  So I washed it.

Then they came again.

This time, I was alerted by the polar bear while they were tiptoeing through the strip of woods on the back of the property, so I wove my way through the piggledy, scratchety (←good one, eh?) woods to herd them out.


They emerged more easily than I.  See, there's a branch in my face.


They'd move a bit.


Then graze a bit.


Then move a bit more.


And graze a bit more.

That nanny was a straggler, really enjoying the purportedly greener grass, so Son4 reasoned with her and used a little traffic cop body language.

Then they were on their way.


And I was on my own way.  I stopped to grab some more photos of spring.



The CowNots escaped only one more time that morning.
And my shoe dried.

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.  Isaiah 40:31