The cows give up the chase.
As I mentioned earlier, we were chased by cows during our walk around Minster Lovell on Saturday. We'd already walked through one pasture of placid cows, who barely lifted an eyelash when we tromped through their weeds, and then we'd walked across the pretty River Windrush, where the dog went for a dip. From there we heard loud mooing up ahead, and when we got closer, we saw fellow ramblers hurrying toward us, their faces a portrait of fear. (No they weren't but this story was getting boring.)
They warned us the cows in yon pasture were riled up, and pointed out an alternate route in the adjoining pasture. The only problem was, the only way to get to that pasture was to first enter the angry cow pasture, go down a ways and climb over the gate, which was the only entrance into the adjoining field. The cows were already running toward us at full tilt, determined to protect their babies from the invading forces. (Again, I exaggerate, but it's important for the villains in the story to have motivation, they told us at novel school.)
We made it just seconds before the outraged mothers. My husband, who will never be mistaken for Sir Galahad, went over first, pulling the dog under, and I scrambled over just as the first angry cow arrived. I immediately turned around and stuck out my tongue. No I didn't; I started taking pictures. Then they crowded around, all of them wanting to get their photo taken. (For a close up see below.) You'd never have suspected they'd earlier tried to kill me.
I actually don't think they would have trampled us in cold blood. They probably would have given us a stern lecture, about how if things had gone slightly differently during the evolutionary process, they'd be the ones herding us humans around and jerking our teats long after the proper time for weaning.
At least I'm pretty sure that's what would have happened.