The Steer in the Swimming Pool

 

Thus my heart was grieved,

And I was pricked in my reins.

So foolish was I, and ignorant:

I was as a beast before thee.

Nevertheless I am continually with thee:

Thou hast holden me by my right hand.

Thou shalt guide me with thy counsel,

And afterward receive me to glory.

— Psalm 73:21-24

 

 

           First of all, who knew you could rent Mexican roping steers?

 

           I mean . . . where are they at the rental place, right between the garden tillers and carpet shampooers?

 

           Second of all, who ever heard of livestock getting into a backyard swimming pool?

 

           And third of all, is there any neighborhood more wild and wacky than ours? I don't think so.

 

           Last night was our neighborhood's annual Progressive Dinner, always a fun and refreshing evening. For the dinner course, we were seated with some new neighbors. The thing is, half of the couple is actually among the oldest neighbors of all. Now that she is a grownup, she and her husband have bought an older house right across the street from where her parents still live - the house in which she grew up, decades ago.

 

           The house she's living in now is one of the most famous ones in the area. It was the scene of a neighborhood legend that we were told when we first moved in. Last night, we finally got the story confirmed, once and for all:

 

           See, our neighborhood is all about horses. We have about 25 miles of horse trails weaving in and around the homes and acreages. Quite a few people have barns and pastures. The centerpiece of the neighborhood is the community property, with a big duck pond, equestrian jumps course, Quonset storage building, and two big horse arenas. People practice their riding and barrel-racing in the arenas, and we have horse shows and 4-H and such.

 

           But in the summertime, sometimes, neighbors will rent a small herd of Mexican roping steers, quarter them in the arenas, go down there at night when it's cooler, and do a little roping.

 

           It's always fun to see the clouds of dust rising up over the trees down there, knowing what they're doing. When the big spotlights are on, on summer nights, you know there are people down there having a blast with the "l'il dogies," which, by the way, aren't so little.

 

           Well, here's the suburban legend, which turned out to be true:

 

           One night, years ago, one of the steers got away, and went galloping up the hill. It was pitch black outside the arenas, as our neighborhood did not yet have streetlights.

 

The wranglers - two neighbor men and their teenagers, all on horseback --  didn't see which way the steer went. They couldn't hear the steer running in any direction because he was on the grass for hundreds of feet before he hit any pavement.

 

           However, after a couple of minutes, the wranglers could see sparks flying from the steer's hooves as he clippety-clopped at full speed up the street.

 

There he goes! After him!

 

           They took off on horseback to the top of the hill and down one long block, but lost sight of him and the sparks. They nervously rode their horses around the nearest intersection, listening in all directions.

 

           Finally, they heard a "SPLASH!"

 

           The steer had passed through an open backyard gate, and either jumped or fell into the deep end of the backyard swimming pool.

 

           It was pitch black, and they couldn't see a thing. But the wranglers could hear the steer furiously swimming down the L-shaped pool and then clattering up the steps on the shallow end to get out. He must've turned around and raced back out the open gate . . .

 

           . . . right where they had their ropes ready . . .

 

           . . . roping him on the spot, leading him safely back to the arena.

 

 

 

I'm sure the cow celebrity had to tell the story of his excellent adventure over and over to his bovine brethren. He was probably a lot more relieved to be back safely with them than the human wranglers were to have found him before anything really bad happened.

 

It makes me happy that this nice young family now lives in that house and can keep the legend alive. It's just one more reason we love our neighborhood and believe it's one of a kind.

 

And I think of myself as just like that steer . . .

 

. . . occasionally breaking away from the herd, up to no good, and clattering away, leaving sparks in my trail . . .

 

. . . and, as always happens when you go to a place you're not supposed to be, encountering an unexpected challenge, like a dark swimming pool . . .

 

. . . but, as ALSO always happens, thankful there's a Wrangler right there waiting for you, to rope you, and guide you, and lead you back to safety as you live to tell about it.

 

That's the Christian lifestyle. It's fun, or so I've "herd."

 

Yee Haw, Jesus! Let's rodeo! †