Counting Cows

Early in the course of my hike yesterday I encountered Kathi, one of the cowgirls, who told me that a herd of cattle was going to be coming through, and I might want to detour to avoid them. On the other hand, she said, I could also just walk a short distance up the hillside to get out of the way, wait, and watch them pass. I chose the latter. I grew up on the city streets of Brooklyn, New York; it will never cease to amaze me that I now live on a coastal California cattle ranch. It’s one of those implausible developments that help me to believe that anything is possible. Sometimes it’s like living in a movie of someone else’s life…and it’s fascinating.

So of course I stationed myself at a viewing point. In the distance, I could see a few cows descending a steep rocky incline, impressively agile, kicking up billowy clouds of dust. Meanwhile, a dead cow lay beneath a tree nearby, and vultures were circling and feasting upon it. Drama everywhere.

But in this photo, Kathi is gently telling me to stop talking. There were two other cattle keepers, Sue and Willy, on horseback following the herd, and she was listening carefully for the sounds of their approach, and I was asking too many questions.

“Do cows recognize their own dead?” I asked Kathi. “Do they grieve?”

I guess it wasn’t a good time to get philosophical. In a few minutes, a steady stream of cattle began to pass, as Kathi carefully counted them. Sue and Willy appeared, along with another pair of trusty border collies–“Working partners, not pets,” Kathi once explained–and Willy dismounted to secure the fence behind them. And off they went along Rancho Real, to their next grazing area, and I resumed my walk.

By the way, I still have lots of questions, but as Richard Feynman said: “I would rather have questions that can't be answered than answers that can't be questioned.”

Better yet, I like what Iris DeMent says: “Let the mystery be.”