Today I find myself facing a challenge for which a Ph.D. in literature provided inadequate preparation: how to get a cow out of my driveway.
It is not my cow. I do not have a cow, except occasionally in the form referred to by the colloquial expression "Don't have a cow, dude." Nevertheless there is a cow in my driveway and it needs to go away. Why? Because this driveway isn't big enough for the two of us.
Where did the cow come from? Whose cow is it? Why did the cow cross the road? The cow is supremely unhelpful, only gazing placidly at me without uttering a peep. (Or a moo, I guess. Cows don't peep. As far as I know. I've never seen a peeping cow, I hope to never see one....But on the other hand, I have seen a pooping cow. Don't get me started.)
The cow isn't really doing any harm in my driveway; in fact, if she keeps chomping on the weeds alongside the drive, I may not have to mow out there this week. But what happens when the weeds run out? Will she notice greener grass over in the meadow and then move inexorably toward the garden? I can't have a cow eating my tomato plants. Time to call in the cavalry! (Cowvalry?)
It doesn't take a village to reroute a wayward cow, just one neighbor on a four-wheeler, who leads the cow to pasture. Finally, the cow has left the driveway, allowing me to drive off utterly cowfree. (Udderly?)
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