“He’s not bad. He was just doing his job.”

— lyle lovett, after his leg was smashed
by a bull in a pen of the family ranch.

—

I’ve probably seen the video too many times. Old guy, minding his own business, thrown 400 feet in the air by a bison in Yellowstone. He did nothing to provoke it other than wearing suspenders, which I suppose would warrant a friendly nudge toward fashion updating, but certainly not the rampage that ensued.

So I’m a little nervous going down the tiny dirt road. Middle of nowhere, nobody around for miles, no escape route to be had, and fearsome beasts in the distance.

Still, miles is miles, and I have to get some in for the new AI coach, whom I already despise. If I wanted to be bossed around by a faceless tyrant, I would have stayed in journalism. Oh sure, Mr. Remote Editor, it’s important to YOU that your city’s name be spelled correctly in 84 point type on the front page, but I’m juggling a lot of papers here. Yes, I’m wearing suspenders. Why do you ask?

I’m about a mile from the cabin when my blood turns cold. No I don’t know what that means, and I have no actual means of testing it.

A TREE HAS BEEN KNOCKED DOWN TO SLOW MY APPROACH TOWARD THE KILLER KOWS!!!

My mind races for reasons that the heinous herd up ahead might be plotting my demise.

The little metaphorical lightbulb appears over my head: that “Twister” movie!!!

I always howl with glee when Helen Hunt yells “We got cows!” as the poor bovine flies by on its way to oblivion, or possibly the Outback Steakhouse. Clearly it’s time for payback.

And then I see him up ahead.

A huge black bull is near the road waiting to pounce, in the same fashion as a panther waiting on dinner. He’s low to the ground, hiding in the high grass, as lean and mean as you can be when you spend the day sitting next to the food trough.

He masks his snarl, pretending to be totally oblivious to me, clearly waiting for me to turn my back so he can send me flying. Do they keep records for how high people go in these things? If you’re involved in a Guinness event is there actual Guiness to be had?

Another cow in the background may or may not be wielding an iPhone to record the event.

I react the only way I know how:

I scream like a little girl (sorry, little girls) and break into a world-record sprint.

Which lasts for about 100 yards until I remember we’re at 8,000 feet elevation, I’m not wearing track spikes, and I’m an extremely slow 70-year-old. I collapse in the dirt, lying on my back with my feet sticking up in the West Texas armadillo tradition. Cows respect these things.

Luckily, the bull seems to have lost interest when he saw I wasn’t wearing suspenders. The other cow snaps a photo that he will no doubt use to create an AI image of Trump and the FIFA chief photobombing us, and we part ways.

Finishing my stroll, I barricade the gate on the fence surrounding our little cabin. I sink into the chair on the porch while the poor bird who’s trying to build a nest (in July? Reincarnated journalist who could never make a deadline?) and pull up YouTube on my phone.

As the sun begins to fade, I spend the rest of the afternoon watching that “Twister” scene. Over and over and over again. I got your cows, pal.

I wonder if Outback Steakhouse delivers this far …

3 miles, 16:52 pace.

No cows were harmed in the making of this post.