I think it smells your blood.
I murmured quietly as we came to a halt on our walk around the loch-side. Loch, for those who aren't wise in the way of the Scots, being what we call a lake.
We have lots of Lochs in Scotland and to a one, they tend to be deep, dark and very very cold. With the occasional sea monster thrown in. That's right, I am looking at you Nessie
This week, we had taken it upon ourselves to holiday at one and were having a nice walk.
Oh for God's sake will you stop making jokes about my time of the month?!
The Good Lady snarled like a menstruating dragon finding someone in her nest attempting to steal one of her eggs.
I reached out a hand to still her whilst never taking my eyes off the terrible beast that stood before us.
This is no joke woman. The cow, it senses your blood pudding. Look at it. The scent is driving it wild. I fear it will not be satisfied if it cannot have it.
The Cow in question was a large caramel coloured beauty with two little horns and some very shitty fetlocks.
hopefully fetlocks mean the same to you as they do to me...
The Good Lady let out a snort of disapproval that any of the cows in the field we were in would be proud of.
You are an absolute idiot at times. You really are.
She shook her head.
Maybe they are lambing or something. I read somewhere that when they are lambing they can get very territorial.
I nodded wisely to myself, sometimes my inner naturalist amazed even me.
The Good Lady said something a little less than polite this time in response that sounded something like Lambing? For fuck sake, daft bastard.
Surely she wouldn't be so coarse though? Then again, it was to be expected I suppose, she was on her menses and the moon-blood was divesting her of her normal good sense.
Big Shitfeet made a hoofing noise and took a step toward us.
Right, that was it.
I fixed it with a stare, a fucking downright nasty stare that brooked no nonsense. It was a bad stare alright, one that spoke of death, of burgers piled high like a beef mountain.
I sneered, I had conquered a million burgers. Even the famed Pounder of York. The cost of besting that one had almost cost me the love of the Good Lady herself.
Her cries as I filled the hotel room that night with victory helium from my nethers still haunt me to this day.
I pulled myself out of past memories and focussed back on the shitty fetlocked felon of a cow.
It had grunted and backed up a step, uncertainly clouding its judgement as it visibly withered under the force of my meat-eating gaze.
Then from out of nowhere, a smaller cow. One that earlier, I had affectionately named little daft bastarding thing came stomping up and started trotting forward at us.
Big Shitfeet obviously felt shamed by this display of bravado and joined in, stepping briskly toward us both with its head lowered.
I stood, fury boiling off me that something that I would eat for dinner would have the fucking nerve to threaten me.
Quick, run for the gate. They look mad?!
The Good Lady squawked in terror.
I growled low in my throat. Run?? Run from a fucking cow? More like I should get a fork and some peppercorn sauce out.
The cows were almost upon us. The Good Lady was tugging frantically at my sleeve.
Something tickled at my memory. Something about horns. Something about cows not having them. Meaning that at least one of the udderless bastards charging at us was a bull.
I grabbed the Good Lady's hand and we ran for the gate.
.
.
.
And this time they did not catch me.
