Cattle Drive Down Main Street Ends in Bovine Retreat

Local livestock briefly take over downtown. Local official takes it back.

The call came into the mayor's phone at approximately 9:15 Tuesday morning. According to sources close to the mayor, which is to say the mayor, over breakfast, the caller said only, "The cows are out," and then hung up, as though that explained everything. In fairness, it did.

Within minutes, several head of cattle had made their way into town and were proceeding down Main Street at a leisurely pace, stopping to inspect a bench, a parked pickup, and the window display at the flower shop, which one cow studied for some time before moving on, apparently unimpressed. Another, which on closer inspection appeared to be a bull, paused at the same spot and left a warm, moist present on the sidewalk directly in front of the door. It was, depending on your point of view, either a review of the arrangements or a contribution to them. The owner has since described it as "not the delivery we were expecting."

A response effort was organized immediately, in the sense that people came out of buildings. The assembled team included the mayor, two men from the feed store, a woman still holding her coffee, and a teenager who had been told to help and was doing so from roughly forty yards. Tactics were discussed. The tactic chosen was "get behind them and wave."

I was not part of the team. I was asked to be. I explained that I had a story to cover, and that someone needed to document the response for the public record. The mayor gave me a look I have seen before, usually around our anniversary.

I was reporting from the sidewalk on Main Street when I observed the mayor crossing the street in pursuit of several cows, moving with the calm confidence of a public official who has handled worse at a budget meeting.

Within seconds, I observed the mayor crossing Main Street again, this time in the opposite direction and at a considerably higher rate of speed.

Directly behind her was a bull.

It is worth noting here that no one had mentioned a bull. The call had specified cows. In hindsight, the incident at the flower shop should have been our first clue. The bull, it would seem, had not been briefed, or had been briefed and simply felt strongly about it. He was large, he was focused, and he was not waving anything.

The mayor turned sharply and disappeared into the alley between the hardware store and the old bank building. The bull followed without hesitation. Both vanished from view.

I stood on the sidewalk, notebook open. I considered going after them. I also considered that I was already on page three, and that the lighting on Main Street had never been better. Journalism is a series of hard choices.

For about thirty seconds, the alley produced the sounds you might expect: the pounding of hooves, the scrape of boots on gravel, and a scream I will describe only as "municipal." I wrote "municipal" down. I was pleased with it.

Then the hooves stopped. The screaming stopped.

There was a brief silence, long enough for the woman with the coffee to turn to me and say, quietly, "Aren't you going to do something?" I told her I was doing something. I held up the notebook. She did not seem satisfied with this answer.

Then came yelling. Not screaming. Yelling. It was a different tone entirely, lower and considerably more pointed, and while I could make out the exact words, I can report with confidence that none of them were suitable for the newsletter. I recognized the tone immediately; from the time I tried to fix the garbage disposal myself.

Moments later, the bull emerged from the alley at a brisk trot, head up, eyes wide, with the general expression of someone who has walked into the wrong meeting. He was also, I noticed, limping slightly in the front, the way a man walks out of a council session after being told his proposal will be "revisited next quarter."

Close behind him came the mayor, running, waving a rolled-up copy of the City Council meeting minutes.

It was not a thick set of minutes. It did not need to be.

Based on my observations and a brief look at the alley afterward, this reporter can confirm the alley is a dead end. It would appear the mayor discovered this at roughly the same moment the bull did, and that she reached the conclusion first. Facing a brick wall on one side and eighteen hundred pounds of livestock on the other, she evaluated her options and chose, in the grand tradition of small-town leadership, to take charge of the situation.

Exactly how she took charge became clear later that afternoon, when the bull's owner reported that the animal had a perfect imprint across his forehead of the words "Mayor's override for this motion." I think the bull received the override loud and clear.

He did not stop running until he had rejoined the other cattle, which by then were being steered toward the edge of town by the feed store men, the coffee woman, and the teenager, who had closed to within twenty yards and was now technically helping.

All cattle were returned to pasture by 10:30 a.m. No injuries were reported among residents.

When I approached the mayor afterward for comment, she was still holding the minutes.

I asked what had happened in the alley.

She looked at me for a long moment.

"We reached an understanding," she said. Then she added, "You and I are going to reach one too."

She has declined to elaborate on either. The minutes have reportedly been placed on display at town hall, where staff describe them as "a reminder," and where council members have been noticeably quicker to second her motions.

In the interest of full disclosure, the reporter of this story is married to the mayor. He maintains that his objectivity was never in question. The mayor maintains that this is exactly the problem. He is currently filing from the couch.