It comes with the territory

Cowboy neighbor Bud Morrison sits atop his horse, Fat Chance, after helping us round up our cows.

“It comes with the territory,” he’d said, this cowboy-rancher who now also happens to be my neighbor.

“I just can’t tell you how grateful I am,” I’d replied, thanking him one more time before hanging up the phone and bursting into tears.

I cried with utter gratitude because this neighbor had just selflessly saved me from a morning—perhaps an entire day—of work, worry and possible disaster.

You see, we’d had another run-in with our four belligerent cows. I had no idea they were missing from their pasture until I checked my voicemail before bed and realized I’d missed a call earlier that afternoon from said neighbor, Bud Morrison. 

Now in his 80s, Bud is the real deal; his family has been farming and herding cattle in the Saltese Flats since the 1890s. You could say he knows a thing or two about what “comes with the territory” out here.

“Julia, by any chance are you missing some cattle?” his low voice said on my voicemail. “I’ve got four extra ones around here and I don’t know whose they are.”

My heart dropped. It was 11 o’clock at night when I got his message, and there was no way for me to check on the cows’ whereabouts until the sun came up the next day. At first light, I peered anxiously into our back field. There were no cows in sight and, to my utter horror, I could see that the gate was wide open, the result of forgetful children who shall remain nameless. 

The cows could be anywhere. I envisioned them wandering through nearby neighborhoods and dropping cow pies every three feet, or ambling onto the freeway and snarling traffic all the way from here to Post Falls. I felt like throwing up.

“Bud, we are missing our cows,” I sheepishly said when I called him a few minutes after making my discovery, desperation evident in my voice.

There was no chiding, no saying, “wow, you Dittos are the worst at this!”. All Bud said was, “I’m not sure where they are anymore. Let me see if I can spot them. I’ll call you back.”

Bud’s house sits on a hill down the road from mine, where he can look out his windows and see the valley all around. His property is vast, and I wasn’t sure he’d be able to spot the cows, wherever they were. 

And even if he did find them, then what? Logan was out of town (because he’s always out of town or at work when the cows escape), so it would be all up to me to herd them back to our property. And I have chased the cows enough times to know that I am very bad at it, falling in manure at best and flipping off our 4-wheeler and bruising myself to high heaven at worst. 

What’s more, our cows had never made it this far out of their pasture before; I shuddered to think of what a bona fide cattle round-up on the open prairie might entail. Or worse, what might happen if they made it onto the busy road bordering Bud’s property.

You’ll understand then why I couldn’t contain my joy when, an hour later, I glanced out the window while getting my little boys ready for the bus and saw Bud and one of his ranch hands calmly ushering our four insolent cows into a fenced pen at the entrance of Morrison Ranch.

“They can stay in that pen all day,” Bud said when I called him a minute later to thank him. “When Logan and your kids get home this afternoon, why, I’ll saddle up my horse and help you get them back into your pasture.”

And then his line, humbly given in answer to my gushes of gratitude: “Don’t worry about it. It comes with the territory.”

True to his word, he met us down at his barn several hours later, saddled up on his trusty horse, Fat Chance. He told us exactly what to do to get the cows from his property, across the busy road, and down our long driveway to their rightful home. He calmly rode alongside those cows, assuring us that they wouldn’t go far, that he would keep them penned in, that it wouldn’t be too bad. His skill and quiet confidence was a balm for my frenzied, worried soul.

Once the cows were safely locked in their pasture, I went right up to my house and baked Bud and his wife an apple pie. It’s my grandma’s recipe, one she was famous for in her hometown in Minnesota. And although it’s out-of-this-world delicious, it’s an inadequate way to say thank you to someone who selflessly gave of his time, resources and energy to rescue a neighbor in need.

I’m sure glad people like that come with the territory.