My Rookie Mistake

I got a decent night’s sleep last night (rare lately because of nerve pain in my left leg), Conall ate his breakfast (also rare lately due to his aging), and the morning was cool and gorgeous, so off he, Chann, and I went for a walk on a nearby country road in the valley.

As we drove there, I was looking into all the pastures on either side to see where cattle were grazing. I trust Conall completely around cattle in pastures. He has years of experience walking along roads with cattle on both sides, mostly ignoring their taunts when they shadowed us (and tossed us some shade?), always staying on the road side of the fences.

Chann, however, has not learned that skill. His reaction in the car whenever we drive by cattle standing close to their pasture fences tells me he’s not trustworthy yet. I’ve been meaning to take just Chann out to one of these roads, on leash, and train him to ignore the cattle. But I haven’t, employing various excuses.

This morning, though, I made a rookie mistake. Driving to our favorite walking road, I noticed the fields on both sides appeared free of grazing cattle. Right after turning onto that road, I parked and let the boys out. Instead, I should have driven all the way to the next intersection, a mile away, to ensure the pastures truly were free of cattle along our entire intended walking route. It’s what I’ve done in the past, but for whatever stupid reason, this morning I didn’t.

We started out, and I was pleased to see Conall feeling good and happy, trotting along at a brisk clip. I had to jog to keep up. Chann was ranging ahead, but always waited when I asked him to. It’s rare that we see any vehicles on this road, so I’m able to relax.

We got to an area in the middle of this one-mile stretch of road where there are lots of mostly deciduous trees and shrubs growing because a big irrigation ditch runs nearby and additional irrigation runoff along both sides of the road from regular sprinkling in the pastures feeds their roots. We all like it here because the trees provide some shade and the flowing water cools the air.

At one point I detected the smell of something dead and decomposing. The boys did too and disappeared under the trees and shrubs into the long grass to investigate. I called them back to the road, relieved they hadn’t rolled in anything. “Let’s keep moving, boys. It stinks here.”

A moment later, I heard hooves hitting the dirt in a fast staccato, black cattle exploding en masse from the shade of the trees on their side of the fence and running. I hadn’t seen them, but Chann did.

“Shit.”

That’s all I said because I instantly knew what happened even though I didn’t actually see it: Chann smelled the cattle, went through the trees to the fence and saw them, startled them, and when they got up to run, he slipped under the lowest strand of barbed wire fence and ran after them.

Conall and I dashed as fast as our old achy legs would take us up to the top of the rise and beyond the thick row of trees and shrubs. What I then saw amazed me while simultaneously pissing me off: Chann was merrily chasing about 30 cows as they ran across the pasture toward others in the herd grazing lazily, all moving away from me and the road. As far as I could tell, thankfully there weren’t any calves among the herd, just adults. BIG adults. Off they all ran, so far away that Chann quickly became a small dot in my vision.

Chann wasn’t trying to bite their ankles like a herding dog might; he stayed a safe 20-30 feet behind them, matching their pace, never trying to catch one. Chann’s not a vicious or mean dog, so I never worry he will hurt another animal. He’s just a teenager, unable to assess risk, seeing everything as a fun opportunity. I could see he was having the time of his life, totally deaf to my panicked yelling: “Chann, COME!”

Conall was almost as upset as I was, watching intently, woo-wooing his distress in Chann’s direction. At least I could trust Conall to stay with me.

Thoughts of an angry rancher shooting Chann flashed through my mind. The rancher would have every right. I only hoped the bright orange vest would make it obvious Chann was a pet dog. And since we walk here frequently, I also hoped Chann would look familiar if a rancher did see what was happening.

Eventually, the cattle realized this fluffy little shit chasing them wasn’t a threat and started chasing him back. That’s when Chann’s hearing miraculously returned and he ran back to me and Conall, but not without one last little detour chase of the cattle for a few yards. It looked like a game they were all enjoying. I sure wasn’t.

When Chann came to me at the barbed-wire fence, I reached over and grabbed his collar. The cattle that had chased him were still approaching, but now at a cautious walk. Chann was on high alert. I put a leash on him, nearly ripping my shirt on the barbs.

Unfortunately, where we were now standing the rancher had strung what I call coyote wiring along the bottom section of barbed wire fencing: a mesh wire that keeps animals, like coyotes, and dogs, from crawling under the lowest strand of barbed wire. I couldn’t get Chann back onto my side of the fence, so we walked—Chann still inside the pasture and on leash, me and Conall on the road side of the fence walking through tall grass, the cattle following us at the same slow pace. We made our way back toward where all those trees and shrubs grow, back to the scene of the initial crime.

We eventually reached the end of the coyote mesh. I lifted the bottom strand of barbed wire for Chann to slink under. That’s when I noticed the top of his orange vest had several small holes and tears from when he’d initially scrambled under the fence after the cattle, catching the vest on the barbs.

Conall gave Chann a scolding lunge and a close sniff. (I always wonder what communication transpires between them in these circs.) I kept Chann on a leash as we made our way back toward the car. Good thing, too, because now that he was on the road side of the fence, the cattle grew bold. Twenty or thirty of them clustered right at the fence, following us, taunting us. I jogged with Chann, Conall beside me. The cattle jogged. Conall rushed the fence a couple of times to scatter them, but they always came right back. (This was a common routine when I’d walk Finn and Conall on roads next to pastures in Meadows Valley years ago. It’s cheap entertainment for the cattle.) Finally, we reached the edge of the cows’ pasture and they couldn’t follow us anymore. Whew.

Eventually we passed the trees and shrubs and arrived at the spot where the irrigation canal runs under the road, leaving a small pond nearby. I left Chann off leash to drink. Chann was thirsty. So was Conall, but more from excitement than exertion.

That’s when I noticed several birds chirping angrily – “chit, chit, chit…” – from fence posts and shrubs, flying around us. I might have imagined they were scolding Chann, but they’d done the same when we passed by as we started our walk. I wondered if they had fledglings nearby. I knew they weren’t Red-winged blackbirds (no red and yellow shoulders), but sure sounded like them. Not starlings, either. Back home, I learned they’re likely Brewer’s blackbirds.

I didn’t take any pictures while Chann was “playing” with the cattle. I was too upset and focused on him. So, I’ll finish this long and distressing (to me) story with a couple of much happier photos.

Our neighbors, Cosmo the small-but-doesn’t-know-he’s-small wonder dog and his human, Cathy, often stop by for a visit when they’re out on a walk.

The boys and I enjoy their visits, and I adore Cosmo. His confidence and joyful attitude are inspiring; big dogs don’t worry him in the least. I’m sure, in his mind, he is a big dog. And the fact that his tongue hangs out the side of his mouth because he’s missing several teeth? That just makes him all the more endearing.

I wonder if Cosmo would chase cattle if an unexpected opportunity presented itself? He is a Biewer terrier, after all…

Feature photo: Conall and Chann on that road during an uneventful walk on July 5, 2025.