By Stephanie Suesan Smith, Ph.D.

I never thought I would be glad to see a buzzard.  Maybe he is circling over that lost cow.  That cow plows through the fences and gets in the garden all the time.  I just can’t string the wire as tight as Daddy used to, before the wreck that killed Mom and trashed Daddy’s legs and disposition.  I am not near the farmer Daddy was.  I guess I am as much of one as we have, though. 

I know I shouldn’t hope that cow is dead, because we need her for milk and her calves for meat.  Still, I sure have come to hate that cow.  As soon as I get through this thicket, I can see what that buzzard has his eye on.

It is our cow, but it didn’t up and die the way I hoped.  No, two fellows are standing over her butchering her out with a knife.  You don’t see that every day, even in these parts.  What is that on the back of that guy’s shirt?  PRISONER?  Now what am I going to do?

I hear the Sheriff's hounds baying.  Maybe if I point this shotgun at them and tell them to stay put, I can get the reward money. 

“You, freeze now!”

“ Sheriff, here!  I claim the reward, they killed my cow.”

The Sheriff changed course and laughed.  “You men broke out and got caught by a fifteen year old girl.  Some desperados!”

“Did you find the cow?” Daddy demanded.

“Yes, Daddy, our cash cow”

Susan:   I live on 14 acres with my dogs.  My neighbor’s cows sometimes intrude on us, but are quickly sent back on their side of the barbed wire by my red heeler.  I write nonfiction on pretty much anything or anyone that catches my interest. I also photograph bugs, birds, animals, flowers, and plants, but rarely humans.  http://www.stephaniesuesansmith.com and http://blog.stephaniesuesansmith.com.