If they ever make a cow version of “Sex and the City,” the four bovines who came to spend a  season in our orchard will be the stars.  These four girls, all purebred Norman cows, were black and white beauties.

And they were all out for a good time while they waited for the next step in their lives–motherhood and work.

There was no question who the “alpha” cow was–number 21, our own Sarah Jessica Parker.  She was the leader of the pack and wherever she went numbers 19, 20 and 22 followed.  19 and 20 were twins who naturally stuck together and trotted after 21. 22, however, was a freer spirit.  You always had the sensation that she would go her own way if something more interesting came along.  She didn’t follow because she was a follower; she followed when–and if–she wanted to.

21 was a tease.  If we bent over to weed, she would buzz us, running right up beside us at full speed.  Then, I swear, you could almost hear a quartet of cow laughter as we jumped aside.  21 all but said, “Gotcha.”

22 hung back a bit from these cattle jokes, seemingly as amused by her pasture-mates as by human behavior.  

At no time was 22’s diffidence more apparent than when the four of them were returned to the Mercier farm to meet their destiny–artificial insemination.  Again 21 was the leader; she became pregnant instantly.  19 and 20 dutifully followed suit.

Not so 22.  She did not like the whole procedure.  She began to lose her hair and began avoiding the other girls.  The Merciers tried again, but had no better luck.  “I think she wants a bull,” Monsieur Mercier told us. 

It was a few months later that we found out M. Mercier was right.  After a lovely “honeymoon” in clover and other grasses with handsome fellow, 22 was “with calf.”  Once again her hair was lustrous and she had her whimsical style back.  

There was also a slyly superior look about her.   The other girls had settled for the first excitement that had come their way.  She had found Mr. Big.   

“You must meet European norms for your septic tank and system,” we were told.  We called in a company which, for several hundred euros and a great deal of digging up our property, brought us up to code.

That was the easy part. 

Sometime later there was a knock on our door.  Outside was a woman wearing an offical jacket of the water company, dark blue slacks and serviceable shoes.  Somehow, with her carefully applied makeup, beautifully tailored shirt and gold jewelry, she managed to look extremely elegant.  “I’m here to check your septic system,” she said, presenting her ID. 

We answered her questions and watched as she diagrammed the path of evacuation.  “All right, let’s look at the tank.”

Out we went.  She lifted a concrete cover off and began poking around with a long stick from her truck.  “You need new filtration charcoal,” she said, pulling out an old net bag full of black stuff.  

Then she moved on to the center cover and lifted it.  “Hmmmm,” she said peering in.  We edged closer.  Inside was thick brown sludge.  We were so embarrassed we didn’t know where to look.  That was certainly more of ourselves than we cared to reveal to anyone.

“You’ll get a report,” she said, and then she was off, still looking unbelievably elegant.

We felt like slugs.  Let’s hope she mails that report.   We couldn’t stand to face her again.

With the anniversary of the end of World War II in Europe, Memorial Day and D-Day celebrations, we can’t help thinking about two pilots who lie buried in our local cemetery.  They are brothers, both from Southern Rhodesia, today’s Zimbabwe.  One was shot down in June of 1944 in a particularly deadly dogfight almost directly overhead.  The other went down sometime later and the family asked that his body be brought to rest next to his brother’s. 

The two were part of a large contingent of Rhodesians who joined the Royal Air Force and flew some of the war’s most dangerous missions.   Many of them paid with their lives and are buried in little cemeteries like ours throughout Normandy.   

They were daredevils, these pilots.  They’d already shown they were brave and perhaps a bit reckless when they went off to Africa to carve out a different kind of life.  The war probably seemed like another great adventure. 

What would they think of their country today?   Would they have stayed in Zimbabwe when Robert Mugabe loosed his “war veterans” on white farmers and others there?   Certainly that struggle would not have been another great adventure.  They had fought once for freedom; they knew what it demanded of them, their families and their friends.

Not again, they must be thinking. 

Every week seems to bring another report of mistreatment of animals.  Horses, donkeys, dogs all left on their own with no food, water or care from negligent owners.  Only a few days ago one horse was found near death with a tumor on its eye.   The once-elegant animal is a former race track star with victories in major events to her name. 

The owner has a lot attached to his name, too none of it in a winning vein.  A few weeks earlier, authorities appeared at his farm with a vet and representatives of animal protection groups and took away several animals suffering from extreme neglect.  One horse was so sick and enfeebled that it had to be put down; the others were little more than skeletons. They were taken to a farm operated by the Brigitte Bardot Foundation near Bernay where they are now living out a well-deserved and well-pampered retirement.

At that time, the 72-year old farmer, who claimed he could no longer afford to care for his beasts, was warned sternly about the other animals he said he could care for.  The warning did no good.  When authorities returned to check on the animals’ well-being, they found the old race horse in severe pain. 

There’s no question who the real beast is in this story.

Under French law, the farmer cannot be named unless he is convicted of neglect or mistreatment, nor can his precise address be given.  All the news media can say is that he lives in Lisores, a community in Calvados.  “Don’t worry,” one member of the rescue team told us.  “Everybody around here knows who he is.  He’ll get his share of shaming even without the naming.”

In happier animal news, the Paris police have put a sock in it.  Rather, they have put socks on their dogs.  No one knows better than cops how hard walking a beat can be on feet.  As a result they ordered special socks with soft soles to protect hard-working paws from icy pavements, melting tar and all the other problems of city life.  No more chewing gum stuck to pads; no more pebbles caught under nails or melted ice cream tracked into crime scenes.  Just fresh, clean socks every morning–and probably very stylish socks, too.  After all, they are French dogs.