COWS IN MY BACK YARD
Even before I moved to the Vineyard I knew the local fauna was, at the least, eccentric, at most downright weird. Like a lot of non-resident homeowners I subscribed to the Gazette to keep up with local events. Articles regarding feral turkeys, tree roosting chickens and neurotic skunks appeared routinely in its pages, particularly off season when there was less bad behavior and fewer moped accidents to report. This should have prepared me for my own run-ins with crazed quadrupeds; but it didn’t.
I have grown used to frequent sightings of wild, feral and domesticated two and four footed creatures in my yard, but occasionally, something strange even by Vineyard standards occurs. Take the case of the red footed falcon. One summer a directionally challenged bird migrating from Africa to Argentina landed in Katama taking up residence on a sign in the airport across the street. I got up one morning to hundreds of bird watchers clogging Herring Creek Road. Taxis by the dozen from ferries and planes brought people who stayed just long enough to eyeball a species that had never before set foot (or rather, talon) on North American soil. After adding this sighting to their life list, they turned around and headed home without purchasing so much as a coke. Once here you’d a thought they might enjoy some of the other natural beauty around them, but no, birders, apparently, are just as single minded as, say, golfers, sailors or fishermen. I once came across a bunch of them on a beautiful Pacific beach. They were sitting in lawn chairs, staring through binoculars with their backs to the ocean! Go figure. (Did I go out and eyeball the falcon, you ask? No. There was a picture of it in the paper. That was good enough for me).
A crazy skunk took up residence in our yard last year. She mated, though I never saw him, and produced half a dozen skunkettes whom she abandoned every time she heard a sound. When quiet returned she would come back and round up her babies who had spent the interval blindly running around in circles completely exposed to any and all danger. This back yard activity did not sit well with dog who, until his first run in with mama had been allowed free range. You would imagine that after being half blinded, dog would have avoided skunks at all cost, but having the short term memory of a turnip, and being more territorial than a street gang in Dorchester, every time he saw the skunk he would leap, snarling and snapping, as far as the leash would allow.
Loony behavior is not limited to loons. Sometimes the people who care for animals go overboard too. Like the fellow who had DNA testing on some hair he found to prove the neighbor’s dog guilty of raiding his hen house. Probably could have bought a lot of chickens for what that cost.
On occasion rush hour traffic, such as it is on Island, can be held up by feral tom turkeys fighting, presumably, over an attractive hen. When I think of birds fighting my mind drifts to a smoke filled cellar or garage with two roosters trying to peck each other’s eyes out. This is not the way turkeys do it. They entwine their necks and do a kind of turkey trot, tug-o-war. Back and forth across the road they go, ignoring ‘scats’ and ‘shoos’ of the tired people on their way home from work.
Of course I must give a mention to Cramer the magical donkey. Our neighbor Ernie Boch rescued him from a petting zoo that was about to go belly up. No one else would take him so Ernie figured he’d get along with the llamas. He was magical because, for one thing, he could open the door and go into the house whenever he wanted. I’m sure Mrs. Boch was thrilled.
This all brings us to the point of my little tale. I live half way between Katama Farm and Herring Creek Farm. Before rising in the morning I can tell which way the wind is blowing by what sounds I hear. The crash of the surf, lowing cows and in good weather, which runway is being used at the airport, all tell me if the wind (and there is always wind in Katama) is coming from the east, north or south.
I awoke the one day to exceptionally loud mooing, and since I knew the herd had been at Katama Farm I figured the breeze was light and coming from the east. In fact I could have sworn they were in the back yard. But that would be silly, wouldn’t it? I got up and looked out the window anyway and there they were. A dozen or so black and white cows, using the trees for scratching posts and munching on my carefully tended lawn, surrounded by a half dozen confused farm workers.
It seems the Farm Institute had been moving the cows from farm to farm on foot, via Herring Creek Road. This particular morning the lead cow decided to make a break for it and the rest of the herd followed. After trying several methods of wrangling, these New England cowboys finally got them back on the road. The rest of the trip was not uneventful with two more attempted escapes before reaching their destination.
Retired life can be dull. I get a lot of milage out of this story. Not with Islanders though. They just shrug. They’re used to strange behavior, both animal and human.
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