For Thursday, July 10, 1997 Drummer column; Gibbs, 725 words

Cow tips

My family and I spent five days camping in Crystal Basin with some friends over the holiday, and one night at the Ice House Café we got into a discussion about cow tipping.

Now, you know, if you've ever had a discussion about cow tipping, a few people in the group, no matter how honest they may be in their regular lives, will lay claim to have at one time tipped over a cow, back when they were young. I don't know why that is. It's a mad compulsion. It's a longing claim to a boisterous childhood. It's an attempt to be cool, hip. It's BS. Too many phony cow tippers have infiltrated our society, and we must ferret them out. In order to do that, we must become them, infiltrate their ranks. We must perform a "Face Off."

At the start of our conversation, it looked like we had tipper fibbers amongst us. Nobody actually said they'd ever knocked a cow on her kiester, but when the topic came up a few people gave those knowing nods and waves of their hands, like "Ah, yeah, cow tipping…back when we were kids, every night…"

I felt compelled to interrupt the flow. I said, "Wait a minute. Let's stop right now. Has anyone in this group, honestly, ever tipped a cow in their lives? Honestly?"

After a brief pause no one did anything. No hands were raised. We were clean.

First we discussed the mechanics of cow tipping. Ouch. It would be dangerous, or at least traumatizing, for any cow. A hard fall could break ribs, especially if there happened to be rocks on the ground. That pretty much sentenced the cow to death -- injured livestock are quickly sent to market.

If the cow isn't injured, imagine how hard it's going to be to get to sleep the next night. Bossie's going to be bug-eyed and nervous. She'll be jumping and mooing at every broken branch. She'll keep the herd awake. Weeks of insomnia will ensue. She'll become neurotic, lose weight, and go to market.

We agreed it was the image that was comical, rather than the act. Picture a snoring cow getting a mystery push in the middle of the night. Her eyes pop open. She's unable to catch herself. She tumbles over like a wooden carving. Plop. Mooooooo. Dust. That's cartoon funny, but not really.

Perhaps in Africa the local kids make jokes about giraffe tripping, and laugh up a storm. They know the giraffe would never get up again, and it would be terribly cruel, but it makes for good sick humor. I'm sure elephant rolling and pig spanking are popular sports in some people's minds.

Our conversation ended with a discussion of semantics and a mission statement. We became determined to put an end to cow tipping in our time. By denouncing the act, perhaps we could also rid ourselves of the phony tipsters.

We decided that becoming an authority on the subject would give us credence. We would have to become either dairy farmers or reformed cow tippers.

We reasoned that a person could attempt to tip a cow, fail, and still be able to say honestly that he had gone cow tipping. Using the same sophistry and semantics, I could go lion tickling in my backyard, or badger flicking. I'd have no luck, but I could still go.

Jayson Cabrol, a former student, and I decided that night that we wanted to be able to say with a degree of honesty that we had once gone cow tipping. Then we could speak out against this atrocity with authority.

On the drive back to camp, Jayson and I went cow tipping. I'd seen a few wary range cattle in a field earlier. We stopped and walked along the road with our flashlights on, calling out to the cows, "Are any of you cows asleep? We have come to tip you." They milled around staring at us like we were nuts.

We stood next to a sign that read, "Dogs worrying livestock will be shot." That was enough for us. We got back in the car, and we will never go cow tipping again. We are reformed cow tippers. We have seen the dangers and weighed the hazards; they are grim. Just say no to cow tipping. Down with phony tipsters.