Don't Pet the Fluffy Cows

“Don’t Pet the Fluffy Cows”

Although I was born and raised in South Dakota, I was far from ever being a true farm boy. I was more of a hobbit living in the idyllic shire while my classmates were rugged dwarves capable of dissembling or driving a combine at the age of nine. 

A fellowship of Hobbits, Dwarves, and Elves (those dainty town kids) would all gather in Mrs. Bargman’s classroom and try to understand each other’s language and culture. Belt buckles, cowboy boots, jeans, callouses, and dirty necks worn with no shame: those dwarves were a different kind of kid. 

One of my dearest friends was Wesley Burgraff, who for a majority of my 10 years of riding the bus was part of my bus route.You see, his farm was one of the biggest of any on the bus route. For almost a mile in either direction, Burgraff farm fields grew corn, soybeans, or hay. Each type of animal had its own big red barn. They had cows, pigs, chickens, and BUFFALO! The first time I spotted one in the distance, it felt like I’d been transported to an old west movie. Unfortunately, they were usually off in the distance, so I didn’t get to see them up close. 

The other fascinating aspect of the Burgraff family was how many kids there were. 

Apparently, “Eight was NOT Enough” for these old-fashioned Catholic farm families. One of my teachers at Tri-Valley once said she’d taught a Burgraff every year of her career. Wes’s family was the smaller of two primary Burgraff families. He might’ve been the youngest since I don’t remember any other siblings riding the bus as we grew older. He has an older brother named Burt, who was a good-natured, jovial kid, but apparently, there were several other older siblings. The cousins were even more plentiful, reaching a dozen, so all totalled, I think there were twenty Burgraffs in just those two families. 

I believe he was geographically my closest classmate, but to get to his house, I had to bike up two BIG HILLS over a journey that was about two miles away. So I didn’t get to go visit Wes as much as I wanted. 

The conversations on a bus ride centered around Dwarf culture: machines, tools, and chores. Since it was so exotic to me, I rather enjoyed getting to know Wes and his world. Finally, I was able to get him to visit me at my house. Several of my buddies came over to celebrate, and the centerpiece was a rented VCR (that’s how we did it back in those days) and a rented copy of the greatest movie ever made: RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK. Despite his callouses and gruff ways, I learned something that evening: Wes had never seen a man’s face melt off his skull upon looking at the wrath of God. Mike, Lance, Dan, Jason…they’d seen much, much worse things in movies. Wes? He’d helped birth calves. He’d slaughtered chickens by the dozens. He castrated pigs. Real blood! Yet my Dwarf friend had to return to the Mines of Moria, unable to sleep that night. 

Soon, it was my turn for nightmares.

Our mothers arranged it so that I’d be able to stay with Wes on Friday night and then spend most of the day with him on Saturday. Did I mention that he had his own creek? I’d seen it. Two major branches of Skunk Creek merged just north of his property and flowed right through his land and under a major concrete bridge. There’d be all sorts of fish and creatures in that creek. 

We were greeted with some cookies immediately after we got off the bus and an ultimatum: no playing until chores were done. So I followed Wes into the barn, where Burt was already doing his own set of chores. I remembered seeing the older brothers doing far more aggressive jobs on the property, too. Well, after busting my butt for an hour, we got to go inside and eat one of the heartiest meals I’d ever had. 

But after supper, there was no playing.

You see, we’d just done 1 of 97 chores. Off to work we went. Wes was in a good mood since (even though I was a lightweight) his chore list was getting done twice as fast as they normally would get done. By the time dusk came, we’d done enough chores to earn sleep.

A quick Transformers battle? nope.

Movies? NOPE!

A comic book? Nada!

The next morning, I woke up wondering what Peter Parker would be up to this week. Or the Smurfs and Garamel. But Saturday morning cartoons? I don’t even remember a television being turned on. 

Besides, there were even MORE chores to do.

When my mother finally rescued me, I remember flopping in the bed immediately and sleeping until I was roused for church 14 hours later. How did he do it? My mom also earned a new threat: “Keep acting that way and I’ll send you to the Burgraffs again.” I had a new respect for Wes.

As I got older, I toughened up and got my own chores and animals (I had livestock), so a visit to the Burgraff farm became more and more enjoyable. By Middle School, we were thriving. You see, not only did we get more efficient with chores but we were also able to go fishing and ride three-wheelers (before they were banned). 

It was on one of these fishing/three-wheeling adventures that I came face-to-face with death incarnate. 

And the day started out so simply.

Having crushed our chores already, Wes and I woke on a Saturday with hours of free time, so we made a plan to do some fishing. Back in the 1980s, Skunk Creek was full and flowing with game fish, so we rigged up with big plans for the day. While I would’ve preferred fishing at the bridge, Wes insisted he had a couple good fishing holes elsewhere on his property. So we loaded up our gear, hopped on a three-wheeler, and cut across pastures and fields.

Truth be told, I don’t remember catching a fish that day—but the memories could just be blocked by the trauma. Although…if we didn’t catch any fish, it would explain why Wes made such a strategic blunder.

What did Wes do wrong?

Well, as Burt explained to him later (using a few choice swearwords), we’d crossed a section of Skunk Creek rather than going ALL THE WAY AROUND the way we’d come. 

What’s that mean?

We’d crossed into the buffalo pasture.

For those of you unfamiliar with buffalo, or the bison, they might look like fluffy cows but they are highly evolved creatures capable of surviving harsh prairie winters. Heck, even their teeth are better specialized for grazing on grass. While colonialism almost wiped them out in the 1800s, farming families like the Burgraffs recognized the high-protein/low-fat “bad-ass” nature of a bison. Selling bison meat was a bit of a niche market, but to keep a small herd, the Burgraffs also needed to have a bull bison.

That’s what Wes and I spotted when we came up and over a hill.

An adult bull bison can weigh up to 2,600 pounds, stand six feet tall, and reach charging speeds of up to 35 mph—which I can attest to. 

Wes immediately understood the peril and hit the brakes. Although that bull was a hundred yards away, he stood between us and the gate to get out of the field. Being kept in isolation away from his herd of cows made that bull very testy (or is that testis?), so when he saw a loud, bright red intruder in his field, he was NOT happy. 

I’ll give Wes some credit. He kept calm (despite the screaming in his ear) and used the speed of that ATV to give us some distance between the buffalo. 

Yet there were two problems: 

1. That Bull was not going to stop until he gored us to death (and I was on the back of the three-wheeler). Crossing back the way we came risked getting slowed down in the mud of skunk creek.

2. We were running low on gas.

So Wes stopped the three-wheeler.

“What are you doing?!?”

Wes drew the buffalo closer to us, and when it got close, he sped away at full speed on a bee-line for the gate. With a top speed of about 40 MPH, we got some distance on the angry bull and soon the gate loomed.

“Hop off and open it!” 

Huh?

I’m a hobbit. I don’t know how gates work. Wes couldn’t jump off since he was driving that three-wheeler and it would certainly be destroyed if we both jumped the fence. 

I froze.

By the time I understood what to do and how to do it, that buffalo was closing quickly. Wes sped off as that bull arrived at the gate in a cloud of dust.

Wes gained some distance, and we prepared for a second attempt. 

This time, I grew a backbone, hopped off the three-wheeler, and ran over to the latch. Unfortunately, it was on the other side of the fence, and that gate was built like the Black Gates of Mordor (heavy duty). With that bull rushing closer and closer, I had no choice but to abort and hop back onto the three-wheeler as Wes raced away from that snorting, furry death machine.

Yet this time, something was different.

Burt Burgraff came running from the buildings to our rescue.

Or so we thought.

The thing about big brothers is they have a wry, cruel sense of humor. He stood at the gate, but when he approached, he refused to open it, laughing as the buffalo chased up in another wide circle.

By the time we turned, the gate was wide open and Wes and I escaped while Burt closed it. Even then, that bull still wanted to kill us and bashed into that gate a few times before turning around to stew in his horny (both puns intended) isolation.

A year or so later, I got a phone call from Wes.

It was urgent that I get to his house, so I biked those two big hills for a little glimpse of payback. 

When I arrived, there were several Burgraffs gathered in the front yard. While several of them had very specific tasks coming up, many of them were there just for the spectacle. First, we all rushed to the edge of the buffalo pasture to climb up on the thick fencing. The elder Burgraff got the honors, and with a crack of the rifle, the big bull dropped. 

Then vengeance got a bit bloody. 

I watched, spellbound, as one of the larger tractors hauled that fluffy cow back up to the yard, lifted it with the bucket loader until the great beast stretched from hoof to hoof, and they slaughtered that magnificent animal right there.

Buckets of blood soaked the gravel, but having had those nostrils breathing down my back, I savored that afternoon like a carnivorous dwarf rather than a tea-sipping hobbit.

That scene in Dances with Wolves? 

The stuff of horror.

And that’s why you don’t pet the fluffy cows.

(At least that's how I remember it)

SPONSORED BY: