The Lazy Cow
D. Harlan Wilson
cow was loafing in the middle of the road. It lay on its flank, chewing a
piece of cud as it dream-stared at the navy blue sky, right there on the
dotted line. I pulled my car over to the side of the road and got out.
Looking both ways and making sure the coast was clear, which it was, for
miles, I approached the cow. I cleared my throat. The cow ignored me.
Leaning over, I tapped it on the shoulder. Nothing. I tapped harder. Still
nothing. I was about to kick the cow in the ribs when it finally looked up
at me. "You're a lazy cow," I said, now that I had its attention, "coming
down here from off the field to loaf, when you should be up in the field,
going about your business." I pointed at the field for good measure. The
cow, in turn, spit out its cud on my foot. "And you're a lazy human," it
snorted, "pulling over here in your car to tell me I'm a lazy cow, when you
should be in your car, going about your business. Or getting to it, in any
case." I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could the cow started
laughing. So I just nodded, walked back to my car, got in, stared at the bug
entrails on my windshield for a minute or two, got out, walked back to the cow and politely asked, "May I use your belly for a pillow?"
First published: May 2000