CHAPTER FOUR

I imagine that for every person, there’s a farm animal they know about but have never actually met. For me, that was the cow. It’s kind of weird too when you think about how much a part of our everyday lives they are. It’s sad but true. People eat them, wear them, even sit on them in their cars and living rooms. But I had never actually met a real live cow before, and I knew nothing about them. I loved cows in theory, and I actually had always wanted a pet cow and thought someday I’d have one (two, actually, and a couple of chickens), so the day the cows arrived was one of the highlights of my life. I’d met goats and sheep before but never a cow, and I was just so excited for the arrival of our first three. (I was even getting one more than I’d dreamed of in my imaginary future.)

It’s funny to think I had never even seen a cow up close before. Having lived most of my life so far from rural areas, I had been completely sheltered from farm animals. I was in no way prepared for the size of cows, and their rough tongues blew my mind. I didn’t expect that at all. They have giant prickly cat tongues. I had no idea! There was so much I didn’t know about them. I didn’t know how they liked to be petted. I didn’t know how long they lived. So getting to meet one was truly incredible. (I get excited about meeting all animals, but I assure you, this was a special day.) Our three expected arrivals were Denver (a large white ox with horns), Pouty Cow (light brown with white cheeks), and Jasmine (dark brown). They arrived in the winter, so it wasn’t a simple task to ready the farm for our new residents.

Like everything else on the farm, the pasture had been unused for many, many years, and it needed to be fenced and readied. There was no way we’d be able to do that in such a short time, particularly in the middle of the cold, snowy winter. So we decided to divide the space we’d already prepped for the pigs, which was about six acres and had access to the barn. We knew the cows had never had access to a barn before, and we had been told not to expect the cows to use it. Regardless, we wanted all the animals to be able to use it, especially when it was cold. So we split the pig pasture and built a fence from the front corner of the barn straight back to the property line, which gave them a big pasture to roam in until we could ready the other, larger pasture in the spring.

You always hear about how farmers are hard at work when the sun comes up, if not sooner. If it wasn’t obvious already, well, we’re not exactly farmers. We ran a fairly late meal schedule. Breakfast wasn’t at the crack of dawn; it was usually at a reasonable hour (to us) like 8 or sometimes 9 a.m., but if we didn’t get to the barn by the time Captain Dan the Pig considered an appropriate time, like even ten minutes late, Dan would let us know. He’d walk out of the barn, lift the fence, come into our backyard, step onto our back deck, and yell for his breakfast. He’d literally scream. We’d come out and tell him, “Okay, Dan, we’ll feed you now,” and he’d follow us back to the barn and behave. But the next day, if it was past a time Dan deemed suitable, he’d be right there at the back door, shouting again. It was hilarious but also a huge pain in the ass.

Captain Dan is bigger than Esther, if you can imagine that. He’s eight hundred pounds, so to have this giant pig hollering at you is quite something. Esther would sleep through the whole thing, because she was now settled into the house. She had her own routine, and her own snores probably masked the sounds of Dan’s shouting. But Dan was our alarm clock until the day the cows arrived.

You should see the back door. Dan would push at the door, bite at it, and take chunks out of it while he waited for us. There was no doorbell, so Dan’s grinding and scratching was the doorbell. That, and the screams. And he’d grunt as soon as we opened the door. He had no patience, that one. So building this new fence put an end to our mornings with Captain Dan. We reinforced the fence he broke through and then there was an extra fence, an extra layer. He’d also have to get through three cows to demand his feeding, and that was too much trouble for Dan. Fortunately.

When the cows arrived at the property, the trailer backed up to the pasture so they could walk right off and into their space. Denver was first off, and when we opened the trailer, I marveled. His butt was to the door, so all I saw was a blinding white wall of ox butt. I couldn’t believe how massive he was and that his head would be even higher, somewhere in that truck. Even by ox standards, we’ve now learned, Denver is very large. So I was just not prepared for this giant guy to be the first thing I saw, nor did I know how he was going to maneuver his way out of the trailer cabin. Somehow he turned himself around. He barely even fit in the trailer, but then I saw him turn his head, his eyes looking at me and his giant horns turned toward me. With surprising grace, all things considered, he managed to get himself facing right-side-out.

Once he saw the door was open, he stepped out. His shoulders were six feet high, and he was actually nine feet tall with his head up. Talk about intimidating. You never think about a cow as such a massive creature, its head towering over you. His horns are more than five feet across. One of them is crooked and curves over his head, so both tips point the same direction. It looks kind of funny, but that’s also probably what allowed him to get out of the trailer.

After Denver stepped out, Pouty and Jasmine quickly followed behind. They immediately started to explore the pasture and stopped for hay at the pile we had put out for them. That was when I got to pet them for the first time. I couldn’t pet Denver yet because he was still afraid (I was afraid too, because he was the size of a school bus), but I got to pet the other two and knew that Denver would let me in soon enough. It was a couple of days before I got a lick from them—that’s when I learned about their giant cat tongues.

As we had been told, they had no interest in using the makeshift space we had prepared for them in the barn, even when we tried to lure them in using apples or a grain bucket. We also quickly learned how Pouty got his name, because he had an almost constant stream of tears running down his face, and they would freeze into carrot-sized icicles on his cheeks. Snow would pile up on the cows’ backs, and we just couldn’t understand how they weren’t cold. They looked like they were freezing, but they only ever set foot in the barn for a minute or two, then went right back outside. They obviously have a much higher tolerance for cold weather than we do.

For the whole winter, they stayed in the pasture attached to the barn, with B.J. and Escalade in the “old barn” on the opposite end of the building, and the pigs in the middle with a space behind the barn for them to explore. But we already knew we needed to move everyone into bigger spaces, so before the snow even melted, we started planning new fence lines and trying to figure out where everyone should go.

The first couple of months were uneventful. By spring, we thought the animals had settled in, and we’d become very comfortable. Derek and I had been working on fencing the new space for the cows for a few weeks, and we thought it was good to go. It was right beside the pasture they were already using, but it was considerably larger, so we were excited to move them in. But soon after their move, they had their great escape. It happened at the top corner of the pasture, where the cows broke down a fence, crossed the perimeter, and went through the neighbor’s backyard (which includes a manicured lawn and a pool). The brazen bovines went up the road a mile and a half, into another neighbor’s yard and into the neighbor’s woods. That’s what we learned later, of course. At the time, we had no idea where they were. We just knew they were gone.

On that particular day, a reality show happened to be filming us on the property. We had been approached really early, even before we moved, about doing the reality show with a different company, but they seemed shady when they casually asked, “So, how often do you guys fight?” What was this, Real Housewives of Esther’s Farm? No thanks. We didn’t proceed because it just wasn’t the right time. We had too much going on, and we needed to get everything in order before we could even entertain the idea of having cameras in our faces every day.

By the time we moved to the farm, though, we thought we had more opportunity to provide content that wouldn’t involve making a relationship show about us arguing over Esther in our tiny house. We had a lot going on, of course, but we thought the show could be a great opportunity not only to introduce people to Esther but to deepen the connections we were already building online. The show might allow us to introduce a whole new demographic to an “Esther-Approved” lifestyle in a really fun and engaging way.

So we entered into a development deal with a production company that happened to be filming another show just up the road from us. Who knew Campbellville, Ontario, could possibly become a hotbed for reality television? It seemed so random. Anyway, we started shooting a sizzle reel that could be shown to networks while pitching the show idea. (That show never aired. Regardless, the crew was there with us at the farm that day when the cows decided to make a break for it.)

We were filming in the house when Derek excused himself and went outside to feed the cows. That’s when he noticed they were missing. (When you’re delivering food to animals and there’s no one there to eat it, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to recognize something’s wrong.) The only clue we had to work with was their footprints on the muddy ground.

Derek, our volunteer Ruth, and I scattered to find them, following the footprints through the back of the property. When we got to the property line, it became painfully obvious that the cows had left our farm and gotten onto our neighbor’s property. They left big footprints and broken branches in their path, so it was relatively easy to track them until we got across the neighbor’s yard and onto the road. Then the footprints stopped.

We couldn’t find any signs of them across the road, so we assumed they had taken the road itself, but they had traveled far enough that we couldn’t see them in either direction. One of the guys in the film crew came by in his van, I jumped in, and we started driving up and down the road looking for any indication of our missing cows. After a while, he spotted a car on the side of the road with a small group of people assembled beside it holding their cell phones. Turns out I’m not the only one who can’t miss a good photo opportunity, and three cows on a tennis court certainly makes for a great photo.

The cows had gone almost half a mile up the road before entering another neighbor’s yard, crossing through their tennis courts, and making their way into the forest behind his property. I sent a text to Derek to let him know where we were, then jumped out of the van and started to give chase. The trees were starting to leaf out, so I couldn’t see very far. I began seeing signs of broken sticks and branches again as I got closer to the cows, but it was very difficult to see through the undergrowth of the woods. The forest was thick with invasive trees and thorny bushes. They cut me as I ran in search of the cows, and then my sweat made the cuts sting. But my adrenaline was so high at the time that I didn’t even notice I was getting cut the whole way. I felt like Kevin Costner in that scene near the end of The Bodyguard when he runs from a cabin into the forest. I ran like crazy, hoping I was going the right way, leaping over logs, cutting the crap out of my arms and legs on sticks and thorns. Then I’d stop and listen for the sound of branches breaking as the cows walked. When I heard it, I’d turn and run in the direction of the sound.

Finally, I got close enough that I could see the big white recognizable glow of Denver’s butt moving through the bushes. The other two are darker colored and thus were more camouflaged. Once I saw them, I began yelling for Derek or anybody who could hear me while at the same time trying to catch up with the cows and turn them around.

Ruth arrived on the scene, looking like she’d been through a battle. Her face was bleeding, and she had blood dripping down her arms. I think it looked especially bad because it was mixed with sweat and dirt. It wasn’t until I asked Ruth if she was okay that she said, “Never mind me, look at yourself.” I looked at my shins and they looked like road maps due to the blood and scratch marks everywhere, and all of a sudden the stinging set in because I was now paying attention to it. We didn’t have anything but a bottle of water and a dirty shirt to wipe up with, so we cleaned up the best we could now that the hardcore bushwhacking was over. That’s when we turned our attention to keeping the cows out of the homeowner’s tennis courts.

We corralled the escapees and worked to get them closer to the road, but they settled in between the pool and the tennis court of the very nice house they had chosen to visit. (For the record, Campbellville is a very classy area, with a lot of very wealthy residents, many of whom probably wouldn’t take kindly to a group of cows popping in for a game of tennis.) The cows left footprints all over the yard and crapped everywhere. (And these were not simple “cow pies” either: the cows were stressed, so it was very messy poop.) Poor Denver was covered in it.

Ruth called for a trailer to help us move the cows back to the farm, which we were grateful for, but at the same time she was kind of taking over the whole scene. She was telling people what to do, directing the film crew, telling them where they could go and where they couldn’t go, and suggesting they assist us with the cows. So while she was helpful in calling for the trailer, we weren’t crazy about the idea of her trying to take over an area that was not hers to take over, especially when we were already riled up and trying to get the situation under control. We waited an hour for someone to show up with a trailer, but despite all of our efforts, we were unable to herd the cows into it.

And that’s when the police showed up.

Yes, our cows’ little adventure had now attracted the attention of the local authorities. As if we hadn’t had enough to deal with in the moment. The camera crew probably loved it, but while drama and conflict make great television, they’re not so much fun for the people actually dealing with the situation.

We learned that having cows loose so close to the Canadian National Railway train tracks had forced the tracks in that area to be shut down. (Hitting a large cow could potentially derail a train—and you’ll recall how huge Denver is.) I was mortified. Derek and I profusely apologized to the cops, who were not amused. The officers told us to “just get the cows.” I kept bouncing back and forth between the cows and the cops, trying to provide updates and do everything I could to make sure the police officers weren’t mad.

I didn’t know how serious any of this actually was, and when the police officers told me CN Railway was holding up trains because of us, I assumed that meant we’d be facing ridiculous fines. Surely this had to be a huge problem for them, and we didn’t want this to be our first real introduction to the neighborhood. I was picturing newspaper headlines that read “Esther Opens New Sanctuary, Dads Have No Idea What They’re Doing!” or “Pair Fined $10,000 for Disrupting Rail Service with Rogue Bovines.”

Since at this point I knew the cows were safe, even though we still needed to get them home, I was more concerned about the ramifications of the day’s adventure now that I realized the scale of what had happened. Amazingly enough, the police officers left—to deal with another cow situation! Fortunately, those cows weren’t ours, and we suddenly felt a million times better knowing we weren’t the only dummies chasing cows around Campbellville that day. It turned out this was actually a fairly common occurrence, so all we got was a stern talking-to. That said, it was still an unbelievably intense day, and we have no intention of reliving it anytime soon.

Five hours later, after many failed attempts with the trailer and much deliberation, we started walking the cows back to our property. We had people on either side of us, a car in front, the trailer behind—cameras rolling, quite a procession. I’d calmed down substantially by that point, so I took a selfie with the cows behind me. But Derek wasn’t seeing the humor in the situation yet, so I took only one and then put the iPhone away.

Thus chastised, I sank into my own thoughts. I’d felt a bit better after the police officers left, but I was still tense, and we still didn’t have the cows home. The more I thought about what had happened, the worse I felt. What if the cops had felt they needed to shoot the cows? (Of course this is where my mind goes.) How would people have any faith in us as a sanctuary if just weeks after we took in these animals, they escaped and got killed? What if this had meant the end of the Happily Ever Esther Farm Sanctuary? We would have had to sell the farm we just got. I realized how quickly things could go from simply wrong to ruined. All because of a crappy fence.

We finally were closing in on home, thank goodness. But that would be too easy, right? It seemed like the bovine bunch had enjoyed their field trip, their temporary taste of freedom, because they suddenly veered onto the neighbor’s property again. But that’s not what they actually were thinking. Once we put two and two together, we realized that was the path the cows had taken when they escaped; they were going back the way they’d gone before. We kept trying to get them to the driveway, but they had other plans and cut right through the neighbor’s front yard, around the side of the house, and behind their pool, toward the forest that borders our properties.

At least the cows knew their actual destination: Denver and Pouty went right back onto our property. But Jasmine must have gotten spooked. She carried on past the opening and started walking along our back fence, toward the train tracks again. I was screaming for somebody to come help, because Derek and the others had continued on behind Denver and Pouty, assuming I was right behind them pushing Jasmine along. By the time Derek and Ruth realized we were on the other side of the back fence, I was alone with an upset cow who still wanted to follow her friends, despite their being on the other side of a wire fence.

Once Derek and the others got Denver and Pouty safe inside the barn, I yelled to them, asking for wire cutters so I could cut the fence to get Jasmine back in. It felt like I waited forever for them to show up with the cutters—I’m sure it was only a few minutes, but I had no way to keep Jasmine from running off, and I was afraid that she’d get back onto the tracks (they were just fifteen feet away), and what if a train came? Would she run? Would she know which way to turn? Luckily, she stayed with me until I had the cutters in hand. I cut the fence, and I trampled down the bushes to get them low enough for Jasmine to step over, clearing a path for her to get back in. Without too much fuss, she finally stepped over them to rejoin Denver and Pouty.

Honestly, if we’d wanted any of them to get out it would have been Jasmine, because she’s the calmest of the cows. She also has something called slipper foot, which makes her hooves curl up like a genie’s slipper. It’s either genetic or possibly from lack of maintenance, but the advantage to us is that it makes her slower. It’s cute but probably a pain for her, so we’re trying to fix it with vet trimmings, and slowly but surely, her hooves are getting better.

So for the moment, all was well again… except that we were now left with holes that needed to be repaired: the one they escaped from originally and the new one we had just made for Jasmine. It’s all a learning curve. We thought we had the fences built properly, but Captain Dan proved us wrong. So we reinforced and built better fences when we moved the cows to the next pasture, thinking we’d really done it right this time… and then the cows proved us wrong once again. But as we go along and discover all the things we don’t know, it just helps us learn and get better. I mean, really. You can’t expect a kilted Realtor and a magician to know all this stuff right off the bat, can you?