And the Cow Jumped over the moon

Because everything goes to plan, they say—
On a cool grey Sunday, November day,
We wander down past field and fence
With calm good cheer and full confidence.

Two cows to load, the trailer waits,
“The Dining Car” with open gates.
A scenic tour through Okanagan land,
Final stop: the processor, just as planned.

The pasture’s still, our spirits high—
Another year, a smooth goodbye.
“What could go wrong?” we foolishly think
(Experience should make us blink).

Weeks of grain in the trailer fed,
Training cows—most days, it’s said,
This system works. Well… usually.
Some days? Not so gloriously.

Bertha steps in, calm and proud,
Grain ahead, she’s not cowed.
She settles in with satisfied cheer,
Like boarding a cruise ship—first-class steer.

Dorothy pauses. Eyes narrow wide.
This smells like trouble. She steps aside.
“Extra food? And people too?
Why does Bertha look smug at you?”

She tries to enter, gives it a go,
But Bertha blocks her—doorway, no.
Like a bouncer guarding the club,
“No room for you,” says Bertha’s rump.

Dorothy shrugs. Walks calmly off.
Sweet-talk fails. Bribes fall soft.
Two hours gone, the clock says “Go.”
So Bertha will have to ride solo.

The processor, kind as can be,
Says, “Try again before seven, see?”
So dawn arrives at five-thirty sharp,
Coffee in hand, the sky still dark.

Trailer moved by corral just right—
Dorothy’s awake. And ready to fight.
I swear Bertha must have sent a text:
“Do NOT get in. Beware what's next.”

Steam from nostrils, head down low—
Cartoons, it turns out, aren’t just for show.
She charges hard. We leap aside,
Remarkably quick for dawn-tide.

Dad steps in—older, wise, serene,
With cow-calming powers rarely seen.
(He sings to them. Yes, it’s true.
And oddly enough… it works too.)

Dorothy slows, heads toward the chute.
“See?” says Dad. “Patience is the route.”
Dorothy hears this, takes offense,
And wheels around in fierce defense.

She charges once, then veers at speed,
Hops to the fence—then does indeed
A standing jump, clean, clear, profound—
Five and a half feet, off the ground.

Over the rail, no brush, no touch,
Like an Olympic cow—gold medal, much?
Even the horse never jumped that high.
We stared in awe. Then sighed.

At that point, we called it a day.
Hence, less beef in the freezer, we say.
Dorothy now gives a sideways glare,
A sneer, perhaps, as we walk past her lair.

But December seventeenth—we’ll try once more.
This drama’s not done, that’s for sure.
So stay tuned, dear friends, for chapter next,
Where plans meet cows… and cows protest.

Happy Holidays, count blessings true,
Hold family close, as we all should do.
May God bless you, one and all—
From a farm where cows sometimes fly over walls.

— Graeme Osborn
The Heritage Homestead on Otter Lake