THE REHABILITATION OF A COW ENTHUSIAST

Last year at this time I was stating with conviction that I would NEVER go back to the Farm Show in Harrisburg.  Incredibly, I lied.  Maybe not lied; perhaps just reconsidered my formerly unpleasant demeanor and decided to make a change.  

It was snowing and slippery last year and I will admit that I was slightly (okay completely and utterly- or is that udderly) miserable to be around while my husband tried in vain to engage me in various Farm Show festivities.  After slipping and sliding to reach our destination, I could only imagine the blizzard in which we would have to drive to make the return trip home.  I am nothing if not a pathologic worrier. 

For this reason (and a few other solid motives) I was cantankerous.  I did not enjoy the crowds.  I disliked sitting perched in the nosebleed section of the arena watching junior cowboys and cowgirls racing about on their noble steeds.  I preferred not to admire the unbelievably gargantuan butter sculpture and I had great difficulty not laughing out loud at the dairy princesses walking around in their clodhopper shoes and tiaras.  And I hated the pigs.  I know that to my husband and the rest of his coworkers, pigs smell like money.  And I know hogs are just unfortunate transporters of bacon, but to me, they smell like fetid limburger appetizers served on floating planks of sewer.  Piglets (like dear Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web) are admittedly somewhat appealing.  That is due in large part to the fact that children’s books do not come outfitted with vibrant colored photos utilizing scratch and sniff capabilities. 

Jim thought I’d like the cows.  I do (in principle) like cows.  They are cute.  Particularly cute when blinking their long eyelashes over big brown cow eyes in a field of buttercups on the other side of the fence.  However, when one is expected to walk along skinny passageways between cow bottoms, the situation loses some of the original barnyard charm.  And when the poor misunderstood aforementioned person is walking between cow butts, it is virtually impossible to admire big brown cow eyes because one is intently staring at one’s leather shoes while trying to prevent stepping in something even bigger and browner than abovementioned cow eyes. 

And I was right about the roads.  The two hour trip home took considerably longer with the car fishtailing along the treacherous highway every inch of the way back.  Jim’s attempts to calm me with verbal interjections like, “Don’t worry, we’re good!” fell on deaf ears because fear-inducing sliding speaks louder than a driver who is trying to reassure someone by pretending to enjoy himself because his wife is a pain in the neck.  By the time we finally arrived home, my hands were so white-knuckled, I could barely grasp the car door handle to free myself.  

But I digress…..I was talking about the new leaf I had overturned….THIS year I felt an uncharacteristic wave of magnanimous generosity.  I saw the Farm Show advertisement, and took the first step in Farm Show rehabilitation.  I sent my livestock-loving husband an email offering to accompany him to the event.  AND I promised I would strive to be a better sport this time around.   Predictably, he leapt at the chance to watch me redeem myself.  Or maybe he just wanted to admire the cows. 

The second step in my healing was realizing I didn’t have to wear costly leather shoes to the Farm Show complex.  Indeed, I didn’t have to consider fashion AT ALL.  In fact, I had a fabulous pair of rubber navy Wellies, adorned with apple red polka dots.  I was going to overcome cow poop surveillance by walking boldly through the livestock pens in my galoshes with my head held high.  My footwear, after all, could be easily rinsed by hose if the need arose.  My daughter was less convinced that my boots were a good idea.  Truth be told, when she saw me in the morning with my jeans tucked smartly into my high-rise protection, she considered staying home herself.  My mate for life was less forward with his fashion advice, though I suspect he felt the same way.  He gave me the once over, beginning with my feet.  As a sly grin crossed his face he managed, “Maybe when they see you, they’ll give you something to milk….” 

Amazing what a little foot fortification can do to improve the spirits of a formerly fussy female Farm Show attendee.  I found myself enjoying the cows and the alpaca.  The bunnies and the horses were delightful.  I was even captivated by the chickens, particularly those with the startling and unnatural excess of plumage around their eyes, causing them to look like feather dusters long before their time. 

I could have done without the large arena full of rowdy people cheering implausibly for the cowboy instead of the poor innocent calf who was shamelessly roped and tied without a thought to the kind of money that may later be spent on calf psychotherapy.  Talk about picking on the little guy.  And I thought great strides were being made for a bully-free future. 

My husband expertly suggested that he didn’t really need to see the pigs, thereby releasing me from feigning a migraine or worse yet having to actually be brave and VISIT the pig stalls.  And I’m afraid the sheep were also unobserved due to their inopportune proximity to the swine.  We imagined the sheep must too be wondering, “What IS that baaaaaa-aaaaad smell?”

There is no place quite like the Farm Show for people-watching.  From tiny booted cowgirls in pink sequin to leathery old men who seem comfortable wearing manure-coated coveralls while eating a baked trout sandwich, the menagerie is astonishing. 

Despite crushing crowds of humanity and last year’s declaration to the contrary, I overcame my livestock aversion and survived the day.  Actually enjoyed the day.  And as usual, my husband was right.  I do like cows after all.