Nice Ride!

It’s a beautiful, sunny day here in northern New Hampshire. One of those perfect early fall days when the breeze carries the scent of dropped apples fermenting in the grass, the air is crisp with just the tiniest bite of the cold that’s coming, and the sun warms your back like an old friend with a cozy quilt. The trees are putting on their party dresses, the birds are in a good mood, and for once the goats aren’t trying to disassemble something important.

So naturally, it seemed like a perfect day for a buggy ride.

Talon thought so too. He stepped out like a champ, proud and official-looking in his harness, ears perked, tail swishing like he was auditioning for a calendar photo. We were out about a mile, trotting along past one of the local dairy farms, when the Trouble happened.

Let me set the scene: we’re clip-clopping along peacefully, enjoying life, when bam! Out of nowhere—cue ominous music—a cow.

Not just any cow. No, this bovine had clearly broken free from her pasture and was now loose in the middle of the road, minding her own business and chewing her cud like a creature with zero appreciation for the trauma she was about to cause.

Talon came to a screeching halt. And I do mean screeching. He threw on the brakes so hard I thought we were going to reverse through time. Ears forward, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, tail flagged like a white warning banner—he had locked onto that cow like it was a dragon in disguise.

As far as Talon was concerned, this was no ordinary farm animal. This was a hoofed horror, a snorting specter, a fanged, winged demon disguised as a Holstein and bent on our destruction. In his mind, she was about to sprout bat wings, swoop over, devour us both, and floss with the lines from his harness.

So I did what any logical, buggy-driving, horse-loving human would do: I got out and tried to reason with him.

“It’s just a cow,” I said soothingly. “You’ve seen cows before. That’s a normal, non-lethal cow. I promise not to let it eat you.”

He did not believe me.

I tried leading him. I tried bribing him. I tried every version of “there-there” I had in my repertoire. Talon wasn’t having it. That cow was clearly Satan’s minion, and I was clearly delusional for walking toward it like it didn’t breathe fire.

So, we turned around. Slowly. Carefully. With the cautiousness of someone disarming a bomb. It took a while to get him settled enough that I could climb back into the cart and head for home, but we made it.

Lesson learned: Cow exposure therapy is best done not while attached to a rolling vehicle.

And in case you’re wondering why there’s no photo of the cow—well, I was a little busy trying to not die. You’ll just have to take my word for it. There are moments in life when survival outranks photography.

Maybe next time I’ll bring backup. Or better yet, a cow costume. For desensitization purposes, of course.

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