The View from the kitchen window

I'm watching The View at the kitchen window.

The cow got out.  Had a party in the back field, and then looped back into the main yard.  The poor bewildered sheep had a conniption.  She was baa-ing like the sky was falling, trying to call her wayward friend to repentance.  The cow appeared to have a Romans 7 moment... "For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out.  For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing"... jumping, bucking, pawing at the fence, looking for a gap through which he can return to the safe haven of the petting zoo... and then running off to the green pastures of the backyard and the yet-unplanted garden.  Then returning to the persistent calling of his dear ewe friend... then ignoring the tearful cries and tearing into the stack of hay.  Then nosing over the fence to assure the goats that everything is all right... then tearing off for a run up the driveway and back, stopping to sniff my vehicle for traces of winter salt (none left... sorry buddy, I washed the car two days ago).

The llama is indifferent to the distress of her cohorts, aloof from the disrupted social dynamics that are wreaking havoc on the barnyard.  But the goats are sympathetic to the plight of the poor cow.  Even crusty old Flagpole (the goat with the llama tufts waving from atop his sturdy horns) seems concerned.  The sheep, on the other hand, has withdrawn to a dry space under the tree where she is sulking.  The bossy geese - usually high-handed and meddlesome - remain distant from the situation as if they know the school-yard maxim "Go pick on someone your own size!" and have decided (like many cowardly bullies would) to sit this one out.  They prefer to watch the mayhem from the relative safety of the middle of a small lake of rainwater that has accumulated beside the driveway.

After watching the show for half an hour, I finally intervened in St. Agathe's most entertaining reality network and opened the gate for the cow.  My hero complex was only slightly dampened by the conditions outside.  The ground by the gate is saturated with rainwater, and my running shoe filled with that fragrant combination of mud and manure steeped in generous quantities of stagnated urine.  The hem of my pants - my pajama pants! - sponged up a generous portion of the same soupy mixture.  I call it spring soup - a not-so-secret recipe common to most barnyards this time of year.

The cow came over with a little prompting and checked out the open gate.  He appeared to consider his options carefully for a moment before he ran off bucking, calling over his shoulder that the grass is always greener on the other side.  I made a few more ill-fated attempts to guide the wayward sinner back to the enclosure around the red barn, and was met by the same treatment - bucking, kicking, running, and head-butting.  So I gave up, calling, "Fine! Have it your way!" and returning instead to a dry pair of pants and the fruit smoothie waiting for me on the kitchen table.  Smoothies win over heroics, especially where ripe-smelling runners are involved.