The Trefoil Muse

“Go ahead, you can pet her.  It’s okay.”

Little Britches eyed his father suspiciously, even at the ripe old age of two; he’d mastered the art of discernment.

Little Britches’ father was his hero. Still, he wasn’t totally convinced that petting that little bunting cow at the edge of the deck sniffing lilacs was in his best interest.  Heck, the cows buddy, a young golden lab, knocked him over in exuberant body wriggling, tail wagging licking episodes – and, that farm dog wasn’t as big as the mini black cow with the white face they called Mable!

Little Britches shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his jeans and shifted his weight from one rubber boot to the other, his bright inquiring eyes peering up at his father from below his Blue Jays ball cap. He needed a tidbit more encouragement before attempting, “Mission: touch-the-cow!”

Sensing Little Britches reservations, his father encouraged him further.

“It’s okay, she won’t hurt you.”

Feeling more confident, Little Britches made his decision.  He removed his hands from his pockets and shuffled courageously toward the edge of the deck where the small cow languished in the sunshine sniffing fragrant purple flowers. Tentatively, he extended his thin arm and cupped his hand in friendship.  It was best to be prepared this way prior to engaging with the animal.

When Little Britches stepped off of the deck and onto the grass, it spooked Mable. She trotted several feet away and disappeared behind the side of a pick-up truck parked near-by. From her new hide out, she turned and curiously peered back at the young human who seemed to be stalking her.

Undeterred from his mission, Little Britches, hand still extended; had entered stealth mode.  Cautiously and surreptitiously, he crept forward so as not to frighten Mable further. Every ounce in his 23 pound body was committed to touching the baby cow.  With instinctual prowess, he crept slowly forward inching his way toward the wary wide eyed Mable.  Slowly and steadily, Little Britches narrowed the gap between his target and himself.  If all remained calm he’d be able to touch the young bunting cow.  The anticipation of a goal accomplished intensified as the space between boy and animal disappeared.

Little Britches felt his heart quicken – the mission was attainable!

There was only a few feet left to close the gap when the eyes of boy and beast locked.

Little Britches froze mid step. His right foot hung suspended. He looked like a statuette with his lithe body bent forward, arm extended and eyes fixated on the mini cow. Likewise, Mable stood entranced. Ears forward, her eyes bulged as she braced her four legs in hypnotic oblivion. She stood poised to take action but she stood in stoic silence as she melded minds with the boy to size up his intentions.

It was a stand-off between predator and prey.

In the next few moments anything could happen.  All depended on the trust each creature held for the other.

Then Mable blinked.  It was if a spell had been broken.

“No, Cow!” Little Britches child voice commanded sensing intuitively something amiss with the calf’s demeanor.

The suddenly shell-shocked Mable bobbed her head, bawled, stuck her tail in the air and bolted.  Half running, half bucking, she retreated to the safety of the barn.  Meanwhile, all semblances of courage had failed Little Britches too and he’d quick stepped his way back to his Father’s side where he stood staring at the barn in bewildered amazement.

Little Britches shoved his hands back into the pockets of his jeans. Maybe, it wasn’t the hero’s stand point he was taking now but he wasn’t certain his Mamma wanted him to grow up to be a cow-boy. He suspected one thing was for sure though – if events had of unfolded differently with Mable, he may have grown up to be a cow puncher.