Day 91 – The Accidental Cow Whisperer

Since working from home I think my brain has become somewhat addled.

Today I ended a phone call with “thanks for calling, one of my colleagues in the apprenticesheep team will be in touch shortly.”

What?

I am also making a regular habit of forgetting words.  I often start a sentence and completely forget how to end it, leaving Darren staring at me in anticipation (or maybe I’m mistaking anticipation for bewilderment and frustration).  For instance, this weekend I couldn’t for the life of me recall the word “oven”, mumbling something along the lines of “I might as well cook the potatoes for tomorrow, as I already have dinner in the thingy….umm….hot….oh FFS.  The OVEN!”

Sweet Lord.

I mean, it’s not as if I am sat mindlessly watching TV or staring at a wall for seven days a week.  I am still actually working so really am using what little brain power I possess.  Is it caused by lack of human contact? Age?  Or have I just run out of things to say?

*****

In other news:

I am an unofficial Cow Whisperer.

After work on Friday I went for a walk, taking my usual route over the bridges, across a field and doubling back through “wild garlic alley” (side note: the garlic plants are currently wilting and looking very sad).  It was a tad grey, but the temperature was still high, so I ventured out sans jacket, my hair plaited within an inch of its life, to hide the grey and tidy up the split ends.

I was on a mission – my little legs going as fast as they could – sweat in my elbow creases and behind my knees.  Opening the gate to the second field, I noticed there was a herd of about twenty cows lying down and enjoying the breeze, respite after a few weeks of burning hot sunshine. I walked thirty or so paces and then hesitated, my spidey senses warning me not to get too close to them. A couple and their shaggy, happy little dog, trotted past me and I noticed they had skirted the edge of the field, so I followed suit, trampling through the long grass, avoiding fresh cow pats.

A pale brown cow got to her feet and stared at me. I did a double-take.  Was she really glaring at me, or was I imagining it?  I scanned the herd and couldn’t see a territorial bull or any small calves that required protection, so maybe she was just curious.  I determined it was a safer option to just keep walking to the next gate, rather than turn back and risk being close to the cattle.   I sent out calm, zen vibes, reciting: “I am your friend, I am just walking through. Don’t mind me, nothing to see here ladies” and breathed in and out calmly, hoping they only sensed kindness and not fear.

I veered to the right, sticking to the far edge of the field and glanced back at the pale brown cow. It seemed a couple of friends had joined her, all on their feet, staring at me.

Still.

Silent.

Unnerving.

Three or four began ambling towards me. There were gentle “moos” passing between them, as if sharing the message: “hey, come and check out this human. They might have snacks”. I continued my mantra and made it to the long metal gate, slow and steady so as not to scare them or encourage a stampede.

The gate was heavily padlocked.

As I whizzed round to check out my proximity to the bovine community watch, I came face to face with a snuffling adolescent with enormous brown eyes. She sniffed my t-shirt and her ears flicked as a fly buzzed past.  She stood there, watching me, steam rising from her soft muzzle. Several more sniffers investigated me and a caramel-coloured cow gently licked my arm, her dark tongue rasp-like on my skin.  They were a hairs-width from me and I could feel their hot, milky, grassy breath on my face.  Peering over the top of the many giant heads, it was apparent that the whole herd had joined in the commotion and were forming an orderly queue to greet me.

It was an odd feeling, knowing that these large creatures could actually kill me, yet being so close to them was truly amazing. Their quiet, low moos were mixed with little huffs and snorts and it was just me and them at the edge of the pasture.  It was truly peaceful.

I gestured to the gate and explained that I couldn’t let them out, apologising profusely:  “so like I said, I am really sorry that I interrupted you, and that I don’t have the key to let you out. I’m sure the farmer will be along soon.” I was met with blank stares, long eyelashes and some intermittent moos.

I turned on my heel and walked to the next gate, and they all dutifully followed me, scuffing their hooves through the swishy grass and clopping on the mud. I became spooked when a black cow sped up and walked at my side, but it turns out she was just keen.

The trampling noise of twenty-or-so cows within a few inches of me, was both scary and exciting. I mean, I was literally the Pied Piper of Dorset! However, I recorded a quick video to tell my parents I loved them and that if anyone found this phone, I was likely to have been trampled to death by friendly Fresians. You know, just in case.

Suddenly, a few of the herd broke free and cantered towards troughs of water, so I made a break for it myself, dodging the blue plastic tubs and slipping through the wooden gate, shutting it firmly.

As I turned around, I was met with doleful eyes and an audience of black, brown, white and everything in between. Some cows stretched over the fence to chew on fresh grass, others blinked in my general direction, waiting for my next move. I was tempted to stroke them, but didn’t want to push my luck, so I stayed around for a few minutes, reiterating my point that I was sure there would be someone here soon and that I felt terribly guilty for the disruption.

So, that means I can add “Cow Herding” to my CV.

Right?