One-man team

We are big fans of NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me news-quiz program. A few weeks ago, they talked about a German girl whose parents refused to get her something as impractical as a horse. They compromised and bought her a cow, which she promptly turned into a hunter-jumper and with which she began touring the show circuit.

I identified with the girl; I have recently begun launching myself over fences and my horse isn't up to the task. What's a girl to do? Then I looked out my window I saw the two ox steers. Aha!

When I looked, Reddy, the older, larger one, had finished his own feed, pushed Set off of his and was now munching contentedly. Good thing I only need one to ride.

"I can still eat you!" I yelled out the door to the bullying bovine.

Jack is working on getting them lead, so every morning he halters them and walks them down to the barn for breakfast. 

Sometimes following a rooster.

 Chickens are really bad at hide and seek. (But really good at it for their eggs!)

 You can practically see the yoke, they are paired so well.

 On Sunday, I asked for a turn. Remember how well they lined up and led for him? Well, this is what I got:

Think they can read my mind?

Two heads are better than one

It is regularly many, many degrees below zero here and, well, I am a wuss: starting my car in the morning is not my favorite way to begin the day. Totally a first world problem, as they say, but real enough to me.
I don’t want to go from warm woolen slippers to cold rubber boots, soft fleece bathrobe to stiff bulky Carhartt  just for the 30 seconds it takes to go start the car. And then there is the whole wet hair issue. Didn’t your grandmother tell you people die from going out with wet heads? Well, mine did. And we know I did everything she told me to. (Family: HUSH)

What? Hairdryer, you say?
Sorry, it ruins my ‘do.

For my birthday last year I got a card and the promise of a remote starter. Yes!

Ahem. Another birthday has passed now. Still no starter. Well, not one a mechanic had to install, anyway. Every morning when my movements become increasingly staccato my gallant gentleman of a husband pulls on his boots and coat, risks his fingers by delving into my purse for the key and then starts the car.

Life is good.

Now for where this first world problem intersects with, well, other worlds. You see, every morning in suburban neighborhoods across the northern half of this nation, cars warm up for several minutes all around cul de sacs. Moms hustle children into them, wave at one another and zoom off into their day.

Here, the sound of the engine starting is a modern cow bell. Reddy and Set, our calves destined to be an ox team, come running. So while puffs of exhaust chase soccer mom SUVs off to school, these two are having breakfast between me and my car. I may have to sidestep cow pies, but my hair is dry, my car is warm and no matter what there won’t be traffic. Alleluia!