When I moved to County Leitrim, in the northwest of Ireland, I rented a 100-year-old cottage surrounded by fields. A neighboring farmer leased these fields for his cranky cows.

The cows would wander onto the path between my cottage and the road. They made it clear that they didn't fancy sharing it with either me or my dog, Pip.

It was calving season. The farmer suggested that Pip and I step into the field to get the cows used to us. "Really?" I kept asking. But we lifted the wire and slid through.

Before I could say "Well, isn't this grand?" a dozen cows began to stampede toward us.

Pip and I scrambled back under the wire, bloodying ourselves in the process. Before I was fully out, I felt the thud of a large cow head butting my behind.

I reeled off the names of every member of the holy family, with a signature expletive for each one. The farmer was shaken as well. "Jesus, I'd never expect that," he said.

This article appeared in the March/April 2019 edition with the headline "Bovine Menace." 

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