And now for something completely different...
Pete Granholm was tired, dead tired. Six hours on the road, and he was still in Nevada. From his estimate, he was somewhere near Las Vegas. No time to stop for gambling, however. Once across the state's southernmost point and he'd finally be in Utah with his shipment: six Gurnsey milking cows and one Black Angus bull, specially ordered from Central Califonia--fresh breeding stock for the DairyMaid company in Brightonville. Still, it was a long way to go, especially with a six-hundred pound bull; from his rearview mirror, Pete could see that it was beginning to get restless. Shoulda shipped them by train, he thought. It'd been safer that way.
Hungry, tired, and in need of a toilet, Pete turned off the freeway to a truck stop he knew well from previous trips over his eighteen years as a driver. A quick trip to the men's room, a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and he'd be on his way again. It was a pity he couldn't do more for the poor cows inside the trailer, cooped up like that since they left the stockyards six hours ago. True, he couldn't simply turn them loose to let them stretch their legs, but still.
It was still early in the morning, but the truck lot was already full, their drivers getting their morning cup of joe for their own trips up and down America's highways. Pete found a spot farther back from the diner and parked his rig carefully so as not to upset the animals in the trailer too much. The strong stench of urine hit him in the face as he climbed out of the cab; that trailer was going to need a good hosing down once he reached Brightonville, he figured.
Pete walked stiffly toward the diner, glad to be out of the driver's seat. The smell of cow urine mercifully gave way to the welcoming aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and frying eggs. To hell with the sandwich; Pete was going for the breakfast special: two fried eggs, three strips of bacon, home fries, buttermilk biscuits and black coffee. That should hold him until Brightonville.
While the cook in the diner was busy preparing his breakfast, Pete retired to the men's room to relieve himself of his last thermos of coffee during the trip. Meanwhile, out in the truck lot, the Black Angus was getting claustrophobic after six hours being cooped up in the trailer with six cows. It kicked against the metal doors in the rear with its powerful back hooves. The securing bolt held firm. It kicked again, and again. The rivets popped loose, but the doors remained shut. Knowing freedom was close at hand, the Angus gave them one last angry kick. The doors flew open, and the Angus bull charged out of the trailer, free at last. The six Gurnsey cows followed one at a time, bewildered but happy to be free from their confinement.
The cattle trotted around the lot, looking for water, grass or anything else familiar to them. Instead they encountered noisy trucks and cars, their hooves landing on hot concrete and asphalt instead of the soft earth to which they were accustomed. In desperation, they trotted away from the truck stop and across the desert, southeast toward Las Vegas.
Pete Granholm was tired, dead tired. Six hours on the road, and he was still in Nevada. From his estimate, he was somewhere near Las Vegas. No time to stop for gambling, however. Once across the state's southernmost point and he'd finally be in Utah with his shipment: six Gurnsey milking cows and one Black Angus bull, specially ordered from Central Califonia--fresh breeding stock for the DairyMaid company in Brightonville. Still, it was a long way to go, especially with a six-hundred pound bull; from his rearview mirror, Pete could see that it was beginning to get restless. Shoulda shipped them by train, he thought. It'd been safer that way.
Hungry, tired, and in need of a toilet, Pete turned off the freeway to a truck stop he knew well from previous trips over his eighteen years as a driver. A quick trip to the men's room, a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and he'd be on his way again. It was a pity he couldn't do more for the poor cows inside the trailer, cooped up like that since they left the stockyards six hours ago. True, he couldn't simply turn them loose to let them stretch their legs, but still.
It was still early in the morning, but the truck lot was already full, their drivers getting their morning cup of joe for their own trips up and down America's highways. Pete found a spot farther back from the diner and parked his rig carefully so as not to upset the animals in the trailer too much. The strong stench of urine hit him in the face as he climbed out of the cab; that trailer was going to need a good hosing down once he reached Brightonville, he figured.
Pete walked stiffly toward the diner, glad to be out of the driver's seat. The smell of cow urine mercifully gave way to the welcoming aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and frying eggs. To hell with the sandwich; Pete was going for the breakfast special: two fried eggs, three strips of bacon, home fries, buttermilk biscuits and black coffee. That should hold him until Brightonville.
While the cook in the diner was busy preparing his breakfast, Pete retired to the men's room to relieve himself of his last thermos of coffee during the trip. Meanwhile, out in the truck lot, the Black Angus was getting claustrophobic after six hours being cooped up in the trailer with six cows. It kicked against the metal doors in the rear with its powerful back hooves. The securing bolt held firm. It kicked again, and again. The rivets popped loose, but the doors remained shut. Knowing freedom was close at hand, the Angus gave them one last angry kick. The doors flew open, and the Angus bull charged out of the trailer, free at last. The six Gurnsey cows followed one at a time, bewildered but happy to be free from their confinement.
The cattle trotted around the lot, looking for water, grass or anything else familiar to them. Instead they encountered noisy trucks and cars, their hooves landing on hot concrete and asphalt instead of the soft earth to which they were accustomed. In desperation, they trotted away from the truck stop and across the desert, southeast toward Las Vegas.
