We pulled into a small farm, surrounded by small farms, from a dirt road fifteen miles outside Durango, Colorado. All around us in the distance we saw mountains. In the fields near us, we watched horses and donkeys, fenced-in cattle, a tall goat the size of a pony, and a white Great Pyrenees larger than that.
Our landlady, Holly, waited for us. A tall brunette, middle-aged, dressed like she’d been busy on the farm all morning, she wore her hair up in a bun, and she spoke extremeley fast.
As we introduced ourselves and the two dogs that accompanied us, she walked us around the little farm, then showed us our temporary home. “The cows are kept in the pen because of the calves,” Holly said (not appearing to take a breath) and then walked us up to a pen with ten cows and seven calves in it. “Keep getting out of the fence in the south forty acres. It’s hell getting them back, so they have to all stay here.”
Meeting Number 9
We walked next to her with our dogs on leashes. The cows moved away as we approached — All but one big Angus that stared back at us, unmoving. The others rotated around her before taking their positions.
Holly looked out at the herd. “That’s Number 9. She’s an old cow, but I don’t kill her because she has a calf every year. Probably too old to be any good anyhow.” She walked on past the pen to show us the open fenced field of forty acres. Draft horses grazed in a neighboring field. A donkey with them heehawed a complaint about something.
Holly started again, “You can see the fence there in back. Calves get through it like I said. Feel free to hike out there all you want. The gates are right there.” As she walked on to show us our place, she added nonchalantly, “Number 9 is a known dog killer. You better watch your dogs.”
Ah, what? I thought. I looked back at the pen. The other cows had wondered off. All but Number 9. She still stood where she had been, staring at us. Not at us. At our dogs.
Lucy the Schnauzer and Number 9
Over the next couple of weeks, I’d take my schnauzer, Lucy, out the back gate to the back forty. The gate is right next to that pen. Every time we approached it, Number 9 pushed against the fence on her side, staring down at Lucy. My dog understood, and kept as much distance between her and Number 9 as she could, continuously peeking back until we wondered off into the backfield.
But when we returned, Number 9 would be at the gate, waiting.
Number 9 became a part of our lives for the weeks we were there, and she took a larger part of my thinking. I imagined her motives. Examined the looks she gave Lucy, and the fearful and careful looks Lucy gave back to her. I think that there is a children’s story wanting to be written about Number 9, but it isn’t a sweet and gentle story. It is a dangerous story. Those can be much harder to write, and we’ll have to see how I do.
What Do You Think?
What do you think about the possibilities for this story? Let me know because I wonder if I’m on to something or not. I wonder if all this thought about Number 9 is just because that whole little farm is such a wonderful place.
