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In the beginning was Reginald. In the end was Reginald. He survives this story. Of course, he died. No one lives always. But his data does.
I bought Reginald Haymaker’s data at his estate sale. It didn’t cost much. He wasn’t a famous writer. He was a farmer who kept journals. What surprised me was the size of the archive.
He never published a word. It seems he wanted to, but never did. As far as I can tell, he spent his life working the farm without ever being able to point to what he had accomplished. He invented nothing. He pioneered no new methods. He left behind no great innovations.
He simply did the work.
His best friend was the famous Gloria Trump. How he became friends with a well-known person seems implausible.
There was a famous steam engine. They called it “The Big Boy.” It was touring around the United States celebrating 250 years of America. It brought fanfare everywhere it went. It stopped at Horseshoe Curve, by the town of Altoona, Pennsylvania.
Reginald Haymaker was asked to bring a dairy cow for the kids to milk. He loaded up his prized cow, also confusingly named Gloria Trump. I will refer to the cow Gloria Trump from here on out as The Cow Gloria Trump. But this is not that story.
Haystack was an old black and white Holstein bull. Two sharp horns rose from his head, along with a brass nose ring. He was usually gentle, but able to drive off a black bear if needed. He had not been on his feet in over a week.
Reginald pictured an X on the bull’s forehead. Eye to ear. Ear to eye. He set the barrel at the intersection and pulled the trigger.
The AK-47 fired. The kickback knocked him into the mud. It swallowed his Muck Boots, anchoring him to the spot.
In front of him, the bull swung its head side to side. It bellowed and stood. It plowed through the mud toward the pond, blood marking its path.
Reginald flipped the rifle, slamming the stock into the sludge and smashing a nightcrawler. With a desperate heave, he used the gun like a crutch. One step. He lost a boot. Another step. He lost the other. The gun went off accidentally. His Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat went flying into the mud. He was startled, but since nothing happened, he figured there was no reason to worry about a close call. It would just be a good story to tell his brother later. Close calls made for fun stories.
He took off his bloody, muddy socks and shoved them into the abandoned Muck Boots. He grabbed the gun, which was sticking out of the mud like a flag, and started toward the tractor. It was the only thing that could move in this type of mud.
He made it to the tractor and slipped on the bottom step. The gun went off again. This time, the bullet went through the muffler. He thought, “I should really take off this bump stock. I don’t need that many stories.” The illegal attachment made the rifle fire like a full-auto machine gun, and out here, the sliding piece just made the weapon random.
Reginald recovered and finally got into the cab of the old John Deere 4440 loader tractor. In front, the loader carried a round bale on its spear forks. Three steel prongs stuck out like a trident, the middle one buried deep in the heart of the bale.
He turned the key. The engine coughed black smoke, cleared out, and roared to life. Oily water splattered through the fresh bullet hole in the muffler, catching him right in the face. He tried to wipe it off, but it only smudged across his skin.
He dropped the hay bale, turned on the windshield wipers, and followed the trail of blood.
When Reginald made it to the pond, all he could see was the bull’s nose and a snapping turtle’s head breaking the water.
The snapping turtle had never seen such a massive animal before. He was too young to remember when cows were raised on this pasture and used the pond for drinking water and swimming. The turtle was hungry and wondered if he could eat the whole bull.
Reginald got out of the tractor and propped the AK-47 up on the front tractor tire. The boy fired at the bull. A worm must have crawled into the barrel while he laid it down because when he shot, the worm flew out of the barrel, went for a short ride, landed in the pond, and was snatched up by a largemouth bass.
The boy heard the bullet ricochet. “That’s strange,” he thought. “I must have hit the nose ring.” The turtle sank.The bull made it to the other side and started up the bank. The boy climbed back into the 4440 and tore off around the pond. He caught up to Haystack and lined up the middle hay spear with the animal’s backside. The boy poked him. The bull lunged to the side with his head down, puncturing the front tire with his horn, but the heavy rubber kept rotating and snapped the bull’s neck. A hissing noise rose from the tire and the carcass. One could be patched.
Hey, if you like this let me know in an email RidgeStandup@gmail.com
The Lord of the Cows 