The Lazy Cow
D. Harlan Wilson
A 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