Holy Cow!

Many situations in life are clear-cut. You know exactly what to do. Let’s say, for example, you’re a professional athlete. Your job, which is basically part-time, essentially involves a lot of standing around, scratching, and spitting. For this, you are paid on average $1.5 million a year.

Of course, no one should endure such oppressive conditions. That poor Brett Favre! You have no choice other than to go out on strike. Hardly a tough call.

Or, say you’re the leader of a major world power. Things aren’t going all that well, though. There may even be talk of replacing you with a fellow named Gump. It’s probably just the ploy of embittered partisans.

But the Democrats are rumored to be working on a plan as well. Again, an easy decision. With renewed resolve, you plant your feet firmly in, uh, the sand on the Hawaiian vacation.

Unfortunately, many other situations aren’t so black-and-white. I found myself in such a circumstance just the other day.

Actually, the situation was black-and-white—at least the cow was. Here’s what happened:

I leave the standard note for my college professors: “Have been abducted by aliens, again.” Then, I dash off to my brother’s house in Stacy for what I hope will be at least a few hours of peace and quiet. So, there I am, becoming one with a lounge chair, when I see this woman walking what appears to be a rather large Holstein.

No problem, so far. You see, where my brother lives, it’s kind of like Venice Beach meets the 4-H. It’s not at all unusual to see people rollerblading with their goats, jogging with potbelly pigs, or babbling incoherently to a gaggle of geese

So, I’m not fazed. But then, I see this woman—and her cow—go into a model home. You know, the kind they decorate really nicely to distract you from the fact that the mortgage will probably bankrupt you, or at best leave you with enough money to maybe put a couple of beanbags on layaway.

My first thought was: I wouldn’t really mind being abducted by aliens. Chances are it would get me out of doing my homework, and I have to think that light years convert to massive frequent-flier miles.

Maybe they take a few specimens, and ask a few questions, such as:

• Why did they allow Kathy Bates to do a nude scene in About Schmidt?

• Is Michael Jackson’s This Is It out on Blu-Ray yet?

• Where might we get tickets to see our fellow alien, Lady GaGa, in concert?

Geez, I have to learn to focus. Remember: cow, expensive furnishings, nasty carpet stains. So, what should I do?

I have to assume it’s unwise to start trouble with someone accompanied by a thousand-pound pet. For all I know, it could be trained to attack. One false move, and I’m Bossy’s in-between-meal snack.

Or it could be one of those radical farm animals—the kind that will stampede your house if they even suspect you own as much as a pair of leather shoelaces.

Besides, there could be any number of logical explanations. This is the country, after all. Maybe cattle can become licensed real estate agents. I’ve certainly met plenty who are full of bull…well, who were bovine-like.

It could be that this woman just bought the house, and is doing the required walk-through, accompanied by her keen-eyed, cud-chewing assistant. Or, maybe she is considering buying the house, and brought along a psychic cow: One moo for “The house has good vibes”; two moos for “Do you remember the movie Poltergeist?”.

Of course, it’s equally possible she’s the lunatic leader of the lawless Guernsey gang that has been stomping through model homes from here to Wisconsin.

But whom to call? The police? The animal shelter? State board of real estate brokers? Land O’Lakes?

After much thought, I did what seems to be the standard new-century response in such should-I-or-should-I-not-get involved situations. I caught it all on my video cell phone contraption.

Now, where’s that number for TMZ?

Well, hell, why not? And, of course, consider the source.

Bye for now.
Kiss, kiss.

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