Hay Fever

I can't believe my owner. You'd think he'd have gotten a clue by now. After almost six years, he should know I'm a high-end bull. Only the best sweet feed and the greenest grass for me. Nothing else. He understands this. Or, so I thought. The other day I "herd" him rustling around in the barn and thought, "SNACK!" Moooo! Charging (okay, so it bordered on stampeding) into the barn from the pasture, there he was...shucking hay into my trough. But, one whiff of it told me all I needed to know...that there was moo-way I was going to ingest any of that. Damp, slightly green, and with a hint of mold (For flavor?! Seriously?!)...absolutely not! Spinning around, I let him have it with a ferocious bellow ("MRRRAAAAA!"), and fled like a NASCAR racer on his final lap. Nice try, owner.

--Woodrow

Escape Artist

Woodrow may think no one would be interested in reading what goes on on a farm, but I moo to differ. There's always something happening, and do I have a story for you. It was about a two weeks ago, right after Maybelline was separated from her mom, Gloria. Now, seeing as I've had to calves, most recently a month ago, I know what it's like to be separated from your baby. It's not a pleasant experience. There's lots of anxiety, lots of mooing back and forth, no sleep. It's ugly, uglier than a one-eyed Greek monster...whatever that is. I mean, I over-herd two of my owners, while feeding us our sweet feed, talking about some story they were reading. It sounded creepy and exciting at the same time. Lots of battles and excitement involving someone named Percy Jackson.

Any-moo, while our barnyard superintendent--a guy named Chris--was off somewhere, Maybelline got tired of being away from her mom, Gloria. Now, ironically, Gloria was doing just fine. No mooing. No complaining. Nothing. I remember when Charlotte was separated from her son, Jake. She mooed for days. It got really annoying. But, then I had my first calf--Rosie--and kind of had to eat my cud. It wasn't great, I really missed her and mooed for a day or two myself.

Well, Maybelline was having none of it. Now, I'm not entirely sure how she managed it...seeing as how I'm busy with a newborn and can't be entirely responsible for the actions of those old enough to know better...but, I can only imagine the look on Chris' face when he pulled up in his truck. I know if were a human, I'd be without speech if when I arrived home I found my two dogs curled up under a spruce tree in the front yard...with Maybelline. Moo-dn't you?

--Lily the Cow

                                                   Maybelline the escape artist.

The anecdotes, opinions, and other commentary expressed in this blog are solely those of the cows and "udder" four-legged residents of Red Gate Farm, "hereford" referred to as "the Farm." Any rebroadcast, reproduction, or retransmission of the content without written purr-mission from, or payment of sweet feed to, Moo-jer League Barnyards is strictly prohibited.

--Woodrow the Bull, RGF Commissioner

You may have read, or at least possibly "herd" of, the bovine classic Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type by Doreen Cronin...the purportedly "true tail" of a few rebellious cows that get a straw-brained  idea they need electric blankets because they're cold. Cold! And electric blankets? Seriously? Well, guess what? None of it's true. Why? Because cows can't type! We moo, we chew our cud, we poop. That's about it. We don't type.

Be that as it may, Lily's got this moo-diculous idea of blogging the happenings on the Farm. As if anyone's interested in reading such stuff. I mean really. The ideas girls come up with. You won't find me, Woodrow, writing anything except the disclaimer posted above. Should you decide that Lily's "Cow Tails" are simply riveting, well, that's on you. I can't help it if you have questionable reading tastes. I'll be under the oak tree, chewing my cud and waiting for my 5:00p.m. sweet feed.