A long time before Mad-Cow-Disease was a common term, there was a mad cow. Her name was Bitsie and the huge Guernsey hated me.
Bitsie would conveniently depart just before my parents came home, thus forcing me to face the juvenile version of a firing squad—a.k.a. my mother—with no evidence. My attempts to explain the reason for unfinished chores fell on deaf ears. No one believed Bitsie actually harassed me, thus I become the “story teller” and the term “cowgirl” was applied in a less than flattering way.
“But I never lie,” I protested. And I didn’t.
Now because I was a paragon of virtue, but because when I was three-years-old, my grandmother told me, “If you fib one more time, the devil will come out of the ground and get you with his pitchfork.” That kind of thing stays with a person.
Ironically, Bitsie had no beef with anyone except me. Around other people, she personified the perfect cow, gentle and unassuming, as she switched her long tail at the flies circling her brown and white hide.
Things changed the minute we were alone. The Bovine charged with demonic energy, forcing my short legs into a long sprint to avoid her devilish hooves.