We’re running along on the trail. I’m out front, because my grouchy legs are dictating the pace, and Mo is content to hang behind and follow.
We’re running on the trail at the state park in San Angelo. It’s Mo’s first run here, and I’m showing her around. After a couple of miles, I hear from behind:
“Um, are longhorns aggressive?”
I think this to be an odd philosophical question even for the mind of an arteest. But then I look up and see him. Up above is an extremely large graduate of the University of Texas.
“I don’t think so,” I say. I actually have no idea. This seems good enough for Mo, and the steer is pretty far above us. Until.
About a minute later, we look up at the trail intersecting ours. Another longhorn is standing there, giving us the “why are you not carrying a bale of hay?” look. He obviously has not gotten the message that this is a self-supported run.
I ponder for a second whether this is going to be trouble. But then he just continues moseying down the other trail. I turn around to console Mo. Who is nowhere to be found.
Then I look up ahead. Mo is about a quarter-mile up the trail. Do you remember the Great Bee Confrontation of 2013, where she took off and left me to die? That apparently was not a one-time event.
The rest of the run is uneventful. I try to get close enough to trip her, but by now she has adopted a strategy of staying far enough ahead that I serve as a protective barrier. She is the matador; I am the cape.
I stop just long enough to admire an adorable calf standing next to the trail. The parents look annoyed, but I can not be deterred. I am truly one with nature.
Then we’re back in the car and headed for a futile search for Slush Monkeys.
When we get home, I ask Dad if a longhorn in the wild would ever be aggressive. Nah, he says. As long as you don’t get anywhere near their calves.
Mo spends the evening sitting way on the other side of the couch. Just in case. Those longhorns can be mean …