its 730am sunday morning, and 18 cows escaped from the farm. a rescue mission.

the phone rings at seven twenty seven sunday morning, and it’s john ivy.  the ivy family owns fowler farm, where all of our animals live, and they are out of town on a quick getaway.  I knew a call at this hour could only mean one thing.  I didn’t even answer the phone, I just grabbed socks and looked for my work pants.  a cow is off property, and the neighbors called john--it was obvious.  like a fireman waking up to the bell, I was out the door before my eyes had a chance to focus.  while dressing, a voicemail from john confirmed my autopilot assumption. 

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