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Cow StoriesWhat's Here?
Excerpts from Linda's books and other sources. Cows vs Coyote What happens when an innocent mouse-hunting coyote unwittingly trots over a rise and finds herself in a calf nursery? Winston the friendly bull Sweetheart Don't Mess With Mama Beef Eater -- A poem by Linda Bovine Bibliography Where to find Linda's various cow stories. Coming soon. back to top 
A nice green year
Cows vs Coyote
One summer evening, contemplating the myth of placid cows, I sat on my deck and watched a coyote hunting mice in the field below. When she was full, she ducked under the fence and started up the slope. . . . My first clue of trouble was a bellow that might have come from a wounded elephant, a high-pitched scream of fear and wrath. I grabbed the binoculars and found the coyote. She'd strolled over a little knoll directly into the nursery. The two or three baby-sitting cows sounded the alarm. The coyote looked back over her shoulder, assessing her predicament. Not ten feet away, a cow was pawing dirt up over her back, bawling and tossing her horns. From every direction, cows were running toward the nursery. Read the rest of the story in: Between Grass and Sky "The Cow Is My Totem" (pages 179-180) Published by University of Nevada Press, 2002 back to top Winston the friendly bull
[My friend's] father raised Winston, a beautiful Hereford bull, on his ranch near Newcastle, WY, and his children rode the bull the whole time he was growing up. By the time my father bought Winston, he was a massive breeding machine, with the white curly face and immense circle of horns that mark a true Hereford. I loved taking my friends to the corral to see him, and then casually climbing on and riding him around. Naturally, like the self-centered little monster I was, I allowed my playmates to think I was responsible for the bull’s kindness, but his innate Hereford gentleness kept him calm. -- from Birthday Week July 18, 2010 blog on this website back to top Sweetheart
I get real satisfaction from watching cows eat. They enjoy it so much, wrapping their long tongues around a few stems of green grass, snapping it off and rolling their eyes as they work it back into their teeth. Then after they’ve grazed awhile, they lie down, look philosophical, and belch, bringing up a cud which they chew with an expression like that of a gourmand savoring a special dish. Some of the two-year-olds are so tame I can walk among them, patting their heads, scratching their ears, letting them eat cake from my hand. Last year I spent days coaxing one with a heart-shaped white spot on her red forehead to eat; we call her Sweetheart. George thinks I’m silly to enjoy the cows as much as I do, pointing out they are really rather stupid beasts, but I disagree. They have instincts, and in some cases seem to plot against us. On warm days like this you can almost see them thinking, “I don’t think she shut the gate to the stackyard very tight. I’ll get it down and then we’ll all go in there and pretty soon all the humans will come rushing out cursing and shouting and we won’t be bored.” -- from Windbreak April 15 entry, page 123 published by Barn Owl Books, 1987 back to top Don't Mess with Mama
At first a calf will bawl plaintively if he’s left alone, as when the cow races off to the feed truck. If he’s safe she ignores him. The same calf will lie quietly sleeping when he’s been left with a babysitting cow. But if you want excitement, grab a baby calf in the middle of a calving pasture. He’ll bawl, and every cow within earshot will gallop toward you bellowing madly, ready to protect him. That’s one of the things I like about cows. Their reputation is placid and non-carnivorous but they’ll fight anything to protect their calves. -- from Windbreak April 8 entry, page 120 published by Barn Owl Books, 1987 back to top 
Linda in her Cheyenne kitchen, 2008.
by Linda M. Hasselstrom I have been eating beef hearts all my life. I split the smooth maroon shape lengthwise, open it like a diagram, chambers exposed. I cut tough white membranes off valves, slice onions over the heart, float it in water, boil it tender. I chop prunes, apricots, mushrooms to mix with dry bread, sage from the hillside. I pack the crevices full, nail the heart together, weave string around the nails. Gently, I lift the full heart between my hands, place it in the pan with its own blood, fat, juices. I roast the heart at three hundred fifty degrees for an hour or two. Often I dip pan juices, pour them lovingly over the meat. When I open the oven, the heart throbs in its own golden fat. I thicken the gravy with flour, place the heart with love on my grandmother’s ironstone platter, slice it evenly from the small end; pour gravy over it all, smile as I carry it to the table. My friends have begun to notice my placid air, which they mistake for serenity. Yesterday a man remarked on my large brown eyes, my long eyelashes, my easy walk. I switched my tail at him as if he were a fly, paced deliberately away. --from Land Circle: Writings Collected from the Land Fulcrum Publishing, Golden Colorado published 1991, paperback edition published 1993 Anniversary Edition published 2008 back to top Bovine Bibliography Where to find Linda's cow stories, essays, poems. |
