We were running late for a rendezvous in town when we turned the corner on one of the country roads near us. “Oh, shit,” said my husband. There in front of us were several dozen swaying udders belonging to a herd of cows on its way to fresh grass in greener pastures.

Traffic Jam in Normandy

He pulled our little black car to the side of the road to wait out the transfer. The herd lumbered slowly by, some stopping to taste the wildflowers and grass in the ditch.

The farmer and his family guiding the herd of black and white Norman cows smiled apologetically and waved their switches at us in thanks.

My chauffeur decided he could ease the car a little further ahead. That is when one of the cows took an interest in us, aproaching the car, peering in the window and rolling her big, beautiful eyes at us.

The Center of Attention

And that got the attention of the bull of the herd. Seeing one of his ladies flirt with another brought on a fit of jealousy. He bellowed loudly and nudged the straying cow away with his horns. Chastened, she moved on.

Then he turned to us, convinced we, or at least our car, had been making a play for one of his ladies. The bull was about to settle the score.

He turned to us with fire in his eyes. “Oh, shit,” my husband said again, augmenting the statement with a few other colorful phrases. “We’re smaller than he is.” The enraged bull approached with hooves all but scraping the ground, lowered his head and began pushing at our window, his saliva slithering down the glass. The steam poured out of his nostrils and clouded the windows. With a click that sounded deadly, the side-view mirror folded up. “Merde, merde, merde,” said the driver, “he’s breaking the mirror. Now what?!” We could feel the car begin to rock.

Even the bull’s owner was frightened. He yelled, as though he were merely dealing with a misbehaving puppy. The bull paid not the slightest attention. The farmer tried again. The bull continued his attack. We locked the doors and tightened our seat belts, sure we were about to be pushed over. The farmer timorously used his switch against the bull. The massive animal flicked his tail as if a fly had landed.

Finally, the farmer’s son who was bringing up the rear of the beastly parade, arrived with a much bigger stick and whacked the bull’s hindquarters. The bull disengaged from us as gracefully and gently as a “little doogie” in a cowpoke’s serenade.

Timing is everything, and by this time, all of the bull’s harem were well down the road, safely away from the rival, so he could afford to back off. But it looked as though he strutted a bit as he hurried to catch the ladies. After all, he’d shown them who was in charge. Now he could relax, get them settled in their new quarters and see if the grass really was greener on the other side of the fence.