Verduga

Growing up, we always had a cow. Usually, we just rented one from someone who had a lot of cows in exchange for raising the calf. Generally speaking, cows are docile and calm, but one year we got a cow named Verduga: the executioner, the hangman, the tyrant. Instead of coming out of her head and curving gently towards her front, the horns came out and twisted wildly as if they had been hit by a tornado. Instead of a gentle mooing, she made a sound more like the roar of an injured lion. Most cows are very protective of their calves for the first couple of weeks, but as the calf gets older the cow loses interest and soon a person can do just about anything they want to the calf without causing a scene. Verduga’s calf was almost a year old a time when most cows have already stopped nursing their calves, but still she protected him more fiercely than even the most devoted new mother.

It was my job, along with my brother, to put that calf in pen separate from Verduga every evening. The calf had to be separated from his mom, so he wouldn’t drink all the milk during the night. My older brother and I would go out to the field in front of our house and try to get the calf into his pen. My brother, William, was four years older than I, and a lot bigger, so he got the job of pulling the calf while I came along behind with a stick and tried to get the thing moving. The second we picked up his rope the calf would start bawling at the top of his lungs. Frantically, my brother pulled on his rope and I beat on his black and white spotted rump, and he would stiffen his knees and sit back against William’s pulling. Each inch of progress made seemed to take a life time, and I was always looking over my shoulder for Verduga. Without fail, she would come running across the field from wherever she had been eating, her head down, and those horrid horns thrashing back and forth.

Now I know that a majority of people think that only bulls have horns and want to kill everything in front of them. I guess that myth has been propagated by the fact that one never hears of a famous cow fighter. The fact of the matter is that people only fight bulls because they are less dangerous than cows. When a bull charges at someone, he always closes his eyes; all the person has to do is move over a few inches from where he was before the bull started charging and he will be safe. Cows do not close their eyes when they charge. When one moves over a little she adjusts her charge and still gores him.

I knew all about cows and their open eyes, so when that horrible beast would come charging across the field, I waited until she was about half way to me, threw down my stick and sprinted for the fence with William close on my heels and Verduga close on his. We would climb over, through, or under the fence to the safety of the other side. Finally after a few attempts, we would get the calf into his enclosure.

This routine went on for some time until one day my father happened to be watching as we tried to put the calf into his pen. He watched in disgust as we ran for our lives from a lesser being and decided it was time for us to learn to face our fears. After we had finally succeeded in corralling the stubborn calf, he pulled me aside. “Robert, the cow only chases you because you run.” I thought that through for a second and replied with something like “I only run cause’ she is chasing me, have you seen those horns?” My father looked down at me shaking his head and, handing me a stick, preceded to teach me what to do the next day. The message was pretty clear. No Porter was going to be scared of a silly cow. Porters aren’t scared of anything.

Time moved slowly the next day, and I willed the clock to stop entirely, so I would never have to face down my nemesis. The time finally came, however, and along with William, I walked towards the field. My head was bowed down like a man walking to certain death. My father met me on the way and handed me a nice stout stick. “Remember” he said, “When she comes at you, you turn to face her and hit her across the nose as hard as you can. She’ll never chase you again. You can do it.” I nodded glumly, silently wishing that it was me pulling the calf and William who had to turn and face the nightmare beast bent on killing whoever was messing with her precious baby. Gathering all my meager courage, I walked out to the field to the waiting calf.

As soon as I had surveyed the situation, a wave of relief washed over me. Our friend the calf had decided to hang out right by his pen that day, and Verduga had decided to hang out on the opposite side of the field almost out of sight. There was every chance that we could corral the calf before his mother ever got near enough to be a problem. Unfortunately, the calf decided to be extra stubborn that day. I beat him with all of my strength, but he just would not move. The harder we tried, the more he dug his feet in and the louder he bawled for his mom to come save him. That’s when I heard Verduga’s terrible roar from across the field. Looking over my shoulder, I could see her getting bigger and bigger by the moment headed straight for me. Desperately, I tried to get the calf to move, but he had heard her too and knew that if he held out a moment longer, he would be saved.

I could hear the hoof beats behind me getting closer and closer. Finally, with all my life preserving instincts screaming for me to run, I turned around and faced the charging cow, her tornado horns swinging back and forth as she charged straight towards me. My father swears that she stopped for a second, but if so I cannot remember it. I raised my arm to hit her, but being a terrible judge of speed and distance, I had miscalculated. With all the momentum built up from charging across the field, Verduga slammed into my chest. I remember feeling the top of her head hit me in the mouth as she plowed into my chest and then into the tall grass of the field. Then I don’t remember anything.

My father, who had been watching from the sidelines, hurtled the fence and charged straight for the devil cow. It seemed that she had finally lived up to her name. She was madly pawing with her hooves, and stabbing again and again with those awful horns. Images of my torn and broken body flashed across my father’s mind. Verduga, looking up, realized that she was more scared of my father running to save his child than I had ever been of her. She turned tail and ran, and my Father and brother rushed to the spot I had gone down fully expecting to find me dead or badly injured. When they got there, there was nothing. The cow had been angrily horning and pawing the ground where they had seen me fall, but I was not there.

My memory comes back to me in about the middle of our front lawn, as I’m running full tilt towards my mother in our doorway, my father and brother still behind me in the field looking for my remains. I have no recollection of how I got out from under Verduga. “She horned me! She horned me!” I screamed over and over as I streaked fast as lightening towards the house. Everyone stared in confusion because I was a good twenty yards away from where the cow had hit me and no one had seen me get there. Still screaming, I tried to run into the house, but was snatched up to the arms of my mother. I did not stop yelling. Not knowing how badly injured I was, my mother stripped me of my shirt. Under each arm I had a scrape-- one from each of those twisted horns as they snuggly embraced my thin chest. When Verduga had slammed into me I had miraculously slipped between her corkscrew horns.

I don’t remember what happened to Verduga, although if memory serves me well we had her for some time after she horned me. I never tried to stand up to her again, and she never horned me again. Even after being plowed over and nearly losing my life, I was never afraid of cows. Even today though, I have not lost a healthy respect for them. They sit out there in their fields chewing their cud. Peaceful, but I know the truth.