Can Cows Predict the Future?

Show & Tell Series #1

I shared a version of this story back in May, before Ruth connected me with Jackson, Amy, Chloe, Venus, Abi, and all the other line-crossing teenagers who ran wild with me this summer.

Even then, I suspected George had more to teach me. I just didn’t know what.

Looking back now, I wonder whether that curious young steer was preparing me for a different kind of encounter—one with a group of adolescents who would prove just as willing to cross invisible fences.

There’s another reason I’m returning to George. Writing his story unlocked something in me as a writer. It became one of the most joyful pieces I’ve ever written, sent me to my first writing course, and quietly launched a more playful way of paying attention.

So I’m bringing him back and inviting him to continue the conversation.

This also begins a new monthly Show and Tell series, where I’ll share a more-than-human encounter that continues to speak to me.

As I turn off the freeway after driving fifty minutes across rural southern Virginia, I wonder, will this be worth giving up four hours of my Sunday afternoon?

I didn’t yet realize I had brought someone else with me that afternoon—not another participant, but the internal manager who had spent decades teaching me to value efficiency over wonder. I call her Killjoy.

“Couldn’t you do this at home in your own forest?” Killjoy says.

“I am supporting Callie,” I assure us both, knowing that there is far more than friendship motivating this decision.

Callie and I had both arrived independently at the same place – wild spirituality. The week I shared my invitation to my Church of the Wild book study with her, she invited me to the launch of her wild church. That is not a coincidence. There was something else at work here, something that Killjoy would never understand.

The flat green fields, farmhouses, and grazing cattle carry the history of this place as I speed toward Barter Farms.

I arrive right on time. Sitting in a circle of mismatched folding, metal, and plastic lawn chairs are a dozen strangers. The people are as eclectic as the furniture - all different ages, colors, and backstories as to how they came into this circle.

I know only our hosts, Callie and Dan. It’s much colder than I expected, and I instantly regret wearing shorts. I choose a chair in the sun as a Red-tailed hawk pierces the silence. Around me, some people chat softly while others stare at their phones.

Killjoy opens Outlook to make productive use of the delay. “Three fifteen,” she mutters. “Wasn’t this supposed to start at three?”

I try to ignore her, but she has a way of saying things that make my body react without my consent. I feel my breathing become shallow and my chest tighten.

“You’ve been doing this since seminary. What do you expect to learn?” Killjoy asks.

I remind Killjoy for the hundredth time that this is not about me, it is about finding the intersection of earth, soul, and community. Something that is impossible for me to discover alone.

“Do you really think people spending time in the woods together will make any difference?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I confess. “Do you have a better idea for how to reconnect us to the living world?”

Dan interrupts Killjoy’s interrogation, “Welcome to our first-ever Wild Church.”

Callie invites the handful of children to join her in the garden.

“Callie, can you turn off the electric fence for me?” Dan asks.

Dan continues, “A core element of our wild church experience will be a solo wander in the wild. We will meet back here in thirty minutes.”

He invites us to follow him along a freshly mown trail. The smell of wet grass, sweetened by Japanese honeysuckle, rides the cool breeze. With each step, I feel lighter as the spaciousness of the fields, forest, and vast sky replaces the closed circle of people. I feel a tingling of excitement as we venture into the unknown.

As Dan opens the gate, I glance across the buttercup-laden field toward the adjacent pasture in the distance. The neighbor’s cows - brown, black, and white blobs huddled up against the fence line on this unseasonably cool afternoon. They stop chewing momentarily and stare at us.

I wonder what they are thinking? My body relaxes as curiosity grows.

An urge to kick off my shoes, run through the golden blossoms, and give them a big hug moves through my body.

The ever-present Killjoy intervenes immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous; you are a grown woman.”

I continue my trudge across the field, following Dan toward the forest on the far side of the field. “Enter any of the paths into the forest you desire,” he says.

One by one, my fellow participants vanish into the dark understory to join the Oak, Tulip, Poplar, and Maple trees.//

I continue to follow Dan, not feeling drawn to any of the options.

We come to a path that curves around a clump of mature trees and back toward the cows; without thinking, my feet carry me down the side trail. When the cut path ends, I have two choices - enter the grassless understory or continue forward into high grass.

Killjoy makes the prudent choice. “Best to play it safe and stick with the understory.” I look at my bare legs and acquiesce.

I head toward a large Red Oak, its expansive canopy blocking out the sunlight. I ask the oak, “Would you mind if I lean on your trunk?”

Hearing no objection, I reach out to steady myself; my hand narrowly misses a large poison ivy vine snaking its way up into the expansive canopy. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I reflexively begin scratching my ankles while carefully backing my way out of the ivy blanketing the forest floor.

I return to the trail and brave the high grasses, hoping that the cows will be a friendlier conversation partner.

With every step, Killjoy sounds the alarm. “Be careful! Is that a snake?! This is ridiculous. If Dan intended for people to walk here, he would have mown the path. You are not supposed to be here. Go back!”

I see a fence in the distance and defiantly quicken my pace. Standing at the fence, I see the herd. I wave, whistle, and call out to them. They do not move.

I feel Killjoy tapping her foot at the beat of the ever-ticking clock. “You better get a move on. The others will be waiting.”

I search for her mute button to no avail.

“You have nothing to share with the others - except perhaps a case of poison ivy. You wasted all your time looking for cows!,” she reminds me.

I turn around, muttering to myself, “Why didn’t I go to them when I had the chance?”

As I cross the buttercup field on my way back, I see two of my fellow wanderers walking away from the herd. They have met the cud-chewing neighbors. I muzzle Killjoy and make a beeline for those big-eyed beasts.

Twenty feet from the fence, Killjoy regains her voice. “You better not get too close. You could cause a stampede!”

I drop my cushion on the ground and sit down. A few of the cows stop eating and move closer to the fence; their heads tilt in a puzzled sort of way.

My fellow participants have crossed through the gate and are headed back to the fire circle. I strain to hear Dan’s voice, but I am too far away.

“I hope they tell Dan they saw you. As late as you are, he will think you have been eaten by a bear or got lost in the forest.” Killjoy says.

I notice that rather than a fence with two wires holding them in, there is one section with only one wire. I assume this is the area where the farmer enters and exits. I know the electricity is off, and I assume the cows do not. I am wrong.

I pull out my journal and begin jotting down a few notes.

The crunching sound of grass underfoot breaks my concentration.

I look up.

An escapee tentatively approaches. A young steer - scruffy, long-legged, with matted fur - had slipped under the single wire. The defiant juvenile stands frozen, watching me.

The rest of the herd stops chewing. Every head turns toward us. Their big eyes look stunned, as if they can’t quite believe what he had done.

Neither can I.

Neither can Killjoy, who is rarely at a loss for words.

Everyone knows crossing to the human side of the line is strictly forbidden.

Despite his young age, he is significantly larger than me. I know he is harmless, but this unexpected behavior has triggered a rush of adrenaline.

“This is not normal! You should leave,” Killjoy pleads.

He draws closer. I sit holding my breath. The slightest movement sends him stumbling backward; all four hooves moving in a disorganized shuffle until he catches his balance and stands upright motionless, blinking at me. Then, reasserts himself and draws closer.

Behind him, I can see his extended family, still mesmerized. I am not sure if they are fearful for his safety or perhaps jealous of his courage.

I gently ask, “Who are you?”

The tag on his ear says #42. I know most people would see him as a commodity, to be fattened up and sold to the highest bidder. But being reduced to a mere number seems insufficient for such a curious and courageous creature. I decide to call him George.

This is the closest I have ever been to a cow. Judging by George’s skittish movements, it is a first for him, too.

As I lean into this moment, a type of unspoken connection forms between us.

Deep in those big brown eyes, I see a blond-haired blue-eyed little girl running barefoot across a field of buttercups, the lush green and gold foliage soft against her tender skin.

She is light and free, almost floating as she dances across the field. She is heading toward George, her arms outstretched. She embraces him with all her strength.

She slowly turns her face toward me, and I recognize her.

That seven-year-old version of myself who longed to live among the wild things.

That small-town Texas gal who envied her ranch-dwelling, cattle-raising friends. The one who rode her bike along the rolling hills searching for new adventures.

When my eyes lock with the little girl, I feel it all at once — sadness, like I am seeing a ghost, but also joy in discovering she is still alive.

Has she been there all this time?

I am surprised by the desire I feel to shelter her from what I know is to come, her impending banishment.

George takes another step toward me, close enough that I can hear him breathing. I look deeper into his big eyes, which seem to beckon: “Let her run free before it’s too late.”

In that brief moment, George, the little blond girl, and I are one. They urge me to escape with them.

As I reach out toward George, Killjoy’s sharp voice breaks the connection. “You are late! You are inconveniencing everyone. Go back now.” She shoos George back toward the rest of the herd before I can stop her.

But George stands his ground. He has more to say. He is unafraid of Killjoy.

I find my body turning from him, shoulders slumping; the little girl’s pleading eyes burned into my memory. I head back to the gathering, fearful that Killjoy is right and that I am causing a delay for the others. The soulful ache of separation courses throughout my body as I drag it back across the field.

I arrive back at the circle, and I blurt out, “I’m so sorry! One of the cows got out. I don’t know how. I tried to get him back in, but he would not go. What should I do?”

Rather than alarm, Dan offers reassurance, “No worries. I will make sure he gets back where he belongs later.”

One by one, Dan invites the guests to share something about their experience. Some bring back rocks, others leaves and flowers. I share a photo of George, just feet from me, so close you can imagine his hot breath on your skin. The only words I can find to describe my encounter in that moment are, “I made a new friend.”

At the conclusion of the event, I congratulate Dan on his retirement. He smiles and remarks, “I am looking forward to entering my second childhood.”

Has he been hanging out with George? I wonder.

My encounter with George plays in a loop in my mind, like a favorite song that ended abruptly.

The following week, at the launch of our Church in The Wild: How Nature Invites Us Into the Wild, book group. I invite participants into their time of wandering in the forest behind our home. I say something I hadn’t been able to say to myself the week before: “If you are engaged in a conversation with one of my more-than-human neighbors, do not feel obligated to return until the conversation has ended.”

One of our guests does exactly that. As I am walking back to the circle, I catch a glimpse of Jess through the trees. She is sitting cross-legged in a patch of dappled shade; the serene look on her face tells me she is enjoying the conversation.

That image brings back my George-inspired vision, and I smile.

Curious George slips beneath the wire to say hello.

In his wide brown eyes, I catch sight of the little girl I thought I’d lost.

She is still waiting for me to dance in the buttercups.

Only later did I realize George was preparing me.

One month later, I am sitting in a booth at our local Pizza Hut across from Ruth, as she proposes joining forces with a group of line-crossing adolescents from the local drama club.

For the next two months, I tried my best to let the little blond girl run free as the teens of Appomattox shared their own youthful wisdom.

George was inviting me to follow a more youthful path.

Killjoy was telling me to act my age.

The teens in Appomattox allowed me to dance the bunny hop, sing karaoke, eat hot dogs, and laugh alongside them, their youthful energy drowning out Killjoy’s refrain to behave myself.

George prepared me for a path that opened up unexpected opportunities.

This rebellious cow and these courageous teens got me thinking.

How many of the fences that shape our lives are real—and how many are simply waiting for someone curious enough to duck underneath?

Anyone else feel like crossing the line and letting your youthful self run wild?