Moo

For the second time in as many days I drove home at a snails pace. It was a refreshing change from last weeks commute though, which was slowed by frozen precipitation. This time I was stuck behind a manure spreader. That’s a sign of mud-season spring if there ever was one.

Last year come April I was surprised when cows appeared in a field down the road. Where had they been all winter? At first I thought “come December cows must make like retirees and hop a train to Florida where they spend the winter doing . . . um . . . er . . . whatever one does in Florida. But wait, cows used to VT cloud cover would roast in sunny FL. They’d come back indistinguishable from McDonald’s burgers. Bovine migration is clearly not the answer.”

The mystery of my quadruped neighbors’ winter digs sat in the back of my mind until one day at work. “Where do cows go in the winter?” I asked my unsuspecting boss as we sped past farms en route to a site. The fit of laughter that followed made driving difficult. She’s the patient sort though, so once we were back on the road and she could talk without snorting coffee out her nose she calmly answered my question.

Oops. I try not to let my insanity show the first month on the job. Anything to hang onto one’s dignity. At least my question is resolved: cows spend the winter like us, they put on down vests, huddle in front of the heater, and slurp hot tea.