Rowan and the Dyed Hair and the Cow

(A "Keeper" posting gleaned from the Steps of the Cathedral (An Tir e-mail list) and North Road (Tir Righ e-mail list. June 2007.)

The following is a 'True Story' [tm].

Many years ago [when Rowan was Baroness] the Barony was supporting a community event in Eatonville called 'Robin Hood Days'. To make what could be a *very* long, convoluted story about sheep and guys in kilts under bushes and folks getting caught by the cops necking in the near by cemetery a lot shorter, it would suffice to say that on Sunday morning I wasn't in the best of conditions. Not due to a lot of over-frolicking, though there was some of that, but things like broken down vehicles, etc.

Be that as it may, Sunday my mind wasn't simply not the sharpest pencil in the pencil box and it wasn't taking much to 'disturb my inner peace', what little there was left of it. And I had already apologized to the Norse contingent for coming unglued all over them when it turned out that it *wasn't* their cowhorn horns making 'that sound' at daylight, it actually *was* a cow with calf that was, for some reason known only to someone other than myself and those around me, confined in a small cage just outside of our campsites. (Honest guys. I'm still sorry about that...)

So, my brain wasn't up to witty repartee when I was coming back from viewing said bovine family to be confronted with a woman of indeterminate age (but definitely well into adult hood) who was sporting tri-color hair: platinum blond, lime green and orange. Okay. I could get behind that. I'm sure the things I was wearing would never see the inside of her wardrobe either.

But what ground the whole thing to a halt and created a staring contest was the fact that her tiny toy teacup poodle was dyed in exactly the same three shades.

She looked at me and the mock-woad face tattoos I was wearing. I kept looking from her hair to the shivering dog clutched in her arms and back toward her hair again. After a minute I recovered my poise and welcomed her to the event. She made some sort of return polite noise and handed me her husband's business card just before she turned and left.

Her husband, who was some sort of 'high up there' person in the WA State Veterinary Association at the time.

Go figure.

Rowan

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(Followup about the cow and calf)

It turned out to be an exhibit of a specific breed of cattle - I think it was an Irish Red or some such. And the scary thing is, it wasn't there the night before. It had been set up during the very late night, early morning hours. Well, at least earlier then I got up that day. Right at the entrance to the city park where we were holding the event.

I kept hearing something that morning that sounded just like a person blowing a 'cow horn' horn and without thinking it all the way through and investigating it first (I was still waking up and in knee-jerk reaction time), I went rocketing over to the Norse encampment thinking they were doing it - I was

• really* worried that someone in the town might complain about the sound

early on a Sunday morning. We were literally camped in a campground right inside town.

When I got to the camp, I was told, most politely, that it wasn't them and that it really was a cow. I was not too believing right up until they led me around a corner of camp and put me face to... muzzle with said cow and calf.

Much laughter was had as the Baroness hemmed, hawed and apologized for at least 10 minutes.

One of those 'situations' that teaches you to check it out before you assume.

Rowan