“The Herd Quitter.” Oil C.M. Russell, Montana Historical Society MacKay Collection, Helena, MT

“I want you to envision a grizzly bear riding a tricycle because that’s exactly what Big Ron looked like on his ATV going full-throttle across the pasture…”

WE HAD TO CATCH those damn cows.

The Mexican family who was purchasing them was here and we had to somehow round the cows up and herd them into the horse trailer that was hitched to their blue Ford pickup truck.

The father, a middle-aged man with a thick black mustache, a white cowboy hat, brown cowboy boots, and a paunch peaking over his tight Wranglers and beginning to challenge the buttons of his Western shirt, stepped forward and introduced himself.

His name was Jesus.

My father-in-law and I had built a makeshift aluminum pen. We’d fastened half a dozen panels together using baling wire. The panels were part of a portable pen that was designed for much smaller farm animals like pigs or goats. Using it for cows was like using a portable baby crib to hold a Bengal tiger, but I didn’t know that at the time.

I actually didn’t know anything about rounding up cows. I hadn’t grown up on a ranch and I’d recently relocated my family from the big city to this 34-acre plot in Southern Oregon where I lived with my two daughters, my wife, her parents, a couple of dogs, and way too many horses.

The only thing I knew about cows was that I liked to eat them cooked medium-well.

One of the cows, a young and ornery bull named Jasper, had already broken through our carefully crafted barrier. The section Jasper had charged through was now bent and securely wrapped around his neck in a choke-hold as he frantically charged across the pasture. He stumbled and bucked as the base of the aluminum pen repeatedly struck the ground and sent him careening from side to side.

Surely, he would break his neck.

When all of this started, we had simply set out to round up these cows and sell them to the Mexican family at a fair price so they could butcher them. But now we were knee-deep into a torture session that made interrogators at CIA black sites look like Boy Scouts doing community service.

Jasper was charging directly at me now. I held my ground and struck the earth repeatedly with the broom I was clutching. Using brooms to herd cows had been my mother-in-law’s idea.

“You can strike the ground and direct the cows where to go,” she had instructed us as we prepared for our cattle roundup operation that morning over coffee and beignets that we dipped in powdered sugar.

If you had any doubts, let me assure you that a broom is no substitute for an electric cattle prod.

Despite my efforts to direct traffic with a broom, Jasper charged right past me. Angered by my failure, I struck the ground so hard that the broom broke and was now a jagged weapon. I chucked the broken broom handle at Jasper and missed as he crashed through and disappeared into the thicket of blackberries that lined the creek. My wife, who also brandished a broom, chased after the runaway cow.

Meanwhile, Jesus was attempting to lasso the largest cow, Rosie.

Rosie was standing perfectly still and slobbering as Jesus twirled the lasso above his head in grand orbits then launched and missed. He was patient and would regather the rope, reset and try again. His wife and young daughter stood by the truck watching him. His teenage son had attempted to lasso Rosie earlier but failed. He had given up and joined my wife down in the blackberry thicket to attempt an extraction of the aluminum-ensnared Jasper.

Everything was going to hell, but that’s when our neighbor, Big Ron from up on the hill, showed up on his ATV and turned things around. Big Ron is called “Big Ron” because he’s fucking enormous. I want you to envision a grizzly bear riding a tricycle because that’s exactly what Big Ron looked like on his ATV going full-throttle across the pasture on a collision course with Rosie. She definitely had a few pounds on him, but my money was on Big Ron due to his higher IQ and Newton’s 2nd Law. In addition to those advantages, Big Ron owned a steakhouse. He killed and grilled cows for a living. He was a professional at this shit.

Big Ron eased off the throttle about 20 yards from Rosie. That’s when she made her move. She went from being perfectly still and staring down Big Ron to quickly spinning around and making a beeline for the creek.

But Big Ron is the Mario Andretti of ATVs and deftly maneuvered to cut her off. Rosie stopped again and stared at Big Ron. Snot ran from her nose. Big Ron idled the ATV and stared back for a moment then lurched forward to prod her on. That’s when Jesus made one last go with the lasso and nailed it. Working together, Jesus and Big Ron successfully herded Rosie into the horse trailer.

Soon after, Jesus’s son emerged from the blackberry thicket calmly leading Jasper by his giant aluminum collar. With some effort, we managed to slip Jasper’s head out. Once freed, he immediately joined his mother in the horse trailer. Jesus closed and latched the door then turned around and smiled.

We were all sweating and laughing. We were exhausted too. Jesus reached into the backseat of his truck and brought forth a 12-pack of Bud Light and offered beers all around. We drank cold beer in the hot sun and everyone fell silent. We had moved beyond language. We spoke the silent language of shared struggle and of victory.

I was grateful and thanked Jesus for the cold beer.

©Scott Dewing