At the start of my seminary education the congregation I served as a student associate pastor was in a rural community in north central Kentucky—Flemingsburg. The county seat known as the “Covered Bridge Capital of Kentucky”. During my time at the church the congregation consisted of a mixture of folks of all ages and backgrounds, including farmers (primarily tobacco). Because of my role as student associate pastor, I was designated as a “youth pastor” and the expectation was that I would spend weekends in the community. Flemingsburg was an hour from the seminary in Lexington. To make this work the pastor arranged for me to stay in the homes of church members.
One of the families I stayed with on numerous occasions were the McCormacks. Glen, the father, was a farmer—tobacco, vegetable garden, and a small herd of cattle. With his wife and two teenage daughters they ran an efficient operation that had been in the family for several generations. Typically, I would volunteer my services to whichever family I was staying with to be helpful. Help with tasks. Earn my keep.
One Saturday morning Glen decided to test it out. He asked if I knew how to ride a horse. Of course, I knew how to ride a horse . . . I had ridden horses a few times growing up in Colorado. Perfect! I could help him and his younger daughter “work” the cattle. They needed to be immunized, doctored, and “cut”. “Cut” is how you convert a bull into a steer. Being male, that made me squirm. Outside of witnessing the procedure, I had nothing to do with converting bulls into steers. That wasn’t my job for the day. With his daughter it was my task to herd the cattle from the pasture to the pens. That was it . . . move them from “here” to “there”.
Simple enough.
Of so we all thought.
In the first round everything seemed to be working. The cows were cooperating and working their way across the pasture towards the pen. Leading the way was a cow with her calf. It was a cute scene with al the cattle following behind. I pictured myself as a regular cowboy—a real John Wayne.
As we were approaching the pen the cow turned and took off in the opposite direction and away from the pen. The calf followed. The herd followed. Sort of a “monkey see, monkey do”, except these were cows. Despite our best efforts to wrangle them back they were in the original pasture within minutes. Who could blame them. No one enjoys a doctor visit with poking, prodding, needles, and “cutting”.
Round two. Together we got the cows back in a herd and headed toward the pen. Once again, the cow and calf were leading the way. And, once again, as we neared the pen—they took off. Despite our best efforts to head the cow and calf off, the cows scattered and hightailed it back to the pasture.
When we informed Glen of the situation, he grumbled in frustration and told us to take the herding dog. The dog would know what to do. The dog would keep the herd intact and deliver them to the pen. Textbook strategy. Problem is that most textbooks are written by people who don’t do the actual work . . . plus, cows don’t read.
In round three, much like the first two rounds, the cows were following the text. Word for word. The dog was keeping the cows in line, especially the cow and calf. Everything looked good. At least until that cow saw the pen. Off they went. Scattering everywhere no matter what the dog attempted to do to keep things moving. That cow and calf were having nothing to do with that pen. Neither were the other cows.
Of course, in Glen’s mind, the problem wasn’t the cows. No, it was an “operator” error. The daughter and I kept screwing up. In good John Wayne fashion, Glen hopped on a horse, whistled for the dog, and took off for the cows. All the while I could hear him mumbling, “If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.”
It was a work of art. Like the old master at work, Glen and the dog had the cows rounded up heading towards the pen. But round four would be no different than the previous rounds—the cow and calf scattered and dispersed the herd. Cows in every direction. He tried to reign in the cow and calf, but couldn’t get it done. They were too stubborn. After several attempts, Glen raised his arm and pointed at the cow, declaring, “Roast beef!”
In the end the cow and calf never made it to the pen with the rest of the herd. They escaped the “doctoring”. What came got “doctored”—shots, pills, general care, and few being “cut”. Nothing was ever said about the renegade cow and calf. We returned the horses to their stalls at the end of the day. I had to admit that I was quite proud of myself for helping even though I could not sit or walk for a week after riding a horse all day.
It was several weeks before I again stayed at the McCormacks. It was a calm and peaceful stay with no cattle herding in the picture. No “doctoring”. That Sunday, after church, I joined the family around the table for dinner. It was a typical hearty farm dinner for a Sunday—roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, gravy, and hot rolls. As I was about to take my first bite of roast beef, Glen asked, pointing to my plate, “Do you remember that cow? You’re eating it—roast beef.”
Certainly. It is difficult to forget a full day on horseback chasing a renegade cow around fields. A full week of walking bow-legged and wrenched in pain every time I moved or attempted to sit down . . . yes, I remembered the cow. Saddle soreness has a way of assisting the memory.
For every action comes a reaction . . . a consequence. Unfortunately, the renegade cow found that out while thinking she had avoided the fate and misery of the rest of the herd. Glen explained that the herd couldn’t tolerate a renegade. He couldn’t tolerate a renegade. It disrupts the herd. Everything disrupts. Makes things difficult. So, it had to go. Sooner than later. I felt for the cow. Had it followed the crowd it would have been the main course sitting on my plate that Sunday afternoon. At the same time, I couldn’t complain about the irony of it all. Sometime the cost of rebellion is quite tasty. It was for me and the McCormack family. Not so much for the cow. Yup, roast beef!
