The Squeaker Has a Cow

We spent a cloudy Sunday at the zoo. The squeaker was beside himself with excitement at the prospect of seeing the "animals," a word that sounds just like "Elmo" when he says it. (On an unrelated note, the squeaker can in fact identify "Elmo," which I think is pretty good for a kid who has never seen Sesame Street. However, he does think that all furry muppets with ovular noses are Elmo, including Grover and Ernie.)

Anyway, we hurried past a number of less-than-impressive small animal exhibits in an effort to satisfy the squeaker's fervent and oft-expressed desire to see "neigh neighs." When we found a "Farmyard" within the Children's Zoo, I thought we'd find some neigh neighs for sure. However, there were none to be found. Instead, there were two large and seemingly mild cows, which the squeaker found interesting until they unexpectedly became mooing beasts of terror. Apparently, their loud "moos" were too much. I tried to put the squeaker down so that he could see the cows through the fence; I still have the fingernail marks on my arm to show for this reckless display of faith in his courage. We hurried away from the cows only to come upon a crowd of dangerous attack ducks, who were clearly quacking a vicious song about how wayward toddlers are their favorite Sunday afternoon meal. We rapidly retreated from this frightening mob and stumbled from the farmyard of terror to look for less alarming animals elsewhere.

We found leopards, elephants, a cheetah, a skunk, monkeys, penguins, rhinos, zebras (aka "neigh neighs with stripes"), crocodiles, and turtles. The squeaker particularly enjoyed watching the penguins zipping about in the water, and he also seemed pleased to see the frolicking zebras.

I suppose I can't really blame him for his fear of cows; maybe such a fear is in his genes. The Farmyard incident reminded me of another tale from our travels, which I will relate briefly here. When my husband and I traveled through Ireland and the U.K., we spent a good deal of time walking through the countryside. Indeed, we had no other form of transportation for day trips. We had to cross through many pastures occupied by sheep and cows; the fences actually have small ladders built into them to accommodate adventurous wanderers.

The first time we had to cross through a pasture of cows, we approached the fence with trepidation. Suburbanites that we are, the cows seemed extremely large and unpredictable to us. Were cows friendly? Were the ones with horns really just cows? Were we going to be killed by rampaging English bovines in the bucolic countryside? We waited until the cows seemed entirely absorbed by cowish endeavors like gazing at the clover and then skittered through the pasture. Emboldened by our success, we got quite comfortable with crossing through the pastures, though we always waited until the cows seemed so occupied with their own activities that they wouldn't notice us slipping by.

One time, however, the cows lulled us into a false sense of security. They were clumped in one corner of the pasture and appeared to be gazing at the clover, but when we were about 10 feet from the exit ladder, they suddenly seemed to have some interest in us. They began to wander in our direction. Now, they weren't running, and they certainly weren't stampeding, as it were, but they are large animals and can move surprisingly quickly. In my alarm at the approaching crush of bovines, I was heard to squeak, "The cows are coming! Let me go first!"

When my husband tells this story, tears of mirth roll down his cheeks. Certainly I'll admit that I was frightened by the sudden movement of the cows. And it's quite within my character to want to be the first one to safety. However, here's the kicker -- while I was expressing my terror at the approaching cows and squeaking that I wanted to be the first one over the fence, my husband actually hurried forward and ensured that he was first to scramble over the fence to safety, leaving me to face the herd of fierce bovines entirely alone.

He says that it was happenstance that he climbed the fence first, that he knew the cows presented no danger and that he just reached the fence a second before I did. He also points out that we both survived this encounter with the cows and lived to tell the tale. But then I remind him that the whole tale includes the bit about him escaping to safety first, a point that never makes it into his version.

In any case, the squeaker's fear of mooing cows doesn't seem so crazy in light of my own moment of bovine-induced terror.