Cow pasture pool
It's the Pitts, Los Osos, Calif.
The concept of private property baffles some people.
Gentleman and I were out checking the steers when a golf ball whizzed by right in front of Gentleman’s Roman-nose. As we swung around and galloped in the direction from whence the dimpled ball came we were showered with a blast of pebbles and stones. This phenomenon was caused by a golfer trying to get out of a sand trap which just so happened to be in the middle of my cow pasture! I found the steers spectating in the safest place they could possibly be, directly in front of the old duffer.
Gentleman and I just sat and watched for a few moments while one of our urban neighbors addressed the tee and tried to hit a ball in one. I don’t play the game myself but I could tell he wasn’t very good. But he had a big handicap… his playing partner and wife was there telling him every move to make. Ninety percent of the time when he took a mighty swing the ball just stayed on the tee.
“Pretty tough course huh?” I asked sarcastically.
The golfer nearly had a stroke. “Shhh! Can’t you see I’m hitting a bucket of balls.”
“Pardon me, but do you mind if my horse and I play through? This is private property you know? It is not a driving range, a country club or a place to practice your chipping. We were riding just over the hill and you almost hit my nag.”
He handed me a three wood and asked if I wanted to take a shot or two at his. Which prompted his wife to tee off on him and caused him to see birdies.
“I yelled “FOUR”. Didn’t you hear me?” he asked. “That is a warning you are supposed to get out of the way or you might get hit on the head with a golf ball.”
“Well, I’m going to start counting and if you are not out of here by the time I get to FIVE that will be a warning you are about to get roped and drug through three acres of cactus.”
“But I’m not hurting anything,” the golfer protested meekly.
“A calf could eat one of your golf balls,” I replied.
“I appreciate your concern but it’s all right, I’m using old golf balls and don’t care if I lose them.”
“No matter how you slice it,” I replied, “you could hit a steer on the head and kill it. And your wife looks like a real hooker to me. (I meant, of course, that her shots seem to arc to the left.) I know she couldn’t break 100 but she might break a window.”
“How dare you call my wife a hooker? I ought to sue you for defamation of character.”
“That would be par for the course. By the way, you sure look familiar. Aren’t you the one who dumped his trash on my place last year?”
“It wasn’t trash. It was food for your cows.”
“My cows don’t eat mattresses or old tires,” I replied. “Just look what you are doing to my pasture. I want you to clean up those 36 holes you made and head back to your own clubhouse.”
“What do you want me to do with this?” he asked while pointing to a piece of earth that came from a divit big enough to bury a cow in.
“Why don’t you just take it home and practice on it,” I replied. “How would you like it if I came over to your house and played golf on your front lawn?”
“Well, I’d knock your block off, of course.”
“I’d be pretty safe then wouldn’t I? Judging from what I’ve seen here today you’d miss by a mile.”