I don’t think she planned her day this way.

I bought Old Crazy Cow two years ago at a local auction. Since I bought her with two other black mama cows, I didn’t notice just how wild she was. I brought her home and gave her and her compatriots shots before turning them out. However, instead of going into the field, Old Crazy ran into the barn. When she came out, she snorted and started toward me. I yelled and ran to the safety of the gate, but she shot out into the field instead.

For the next several months, I noticed just how jumpy she was. I had let her out at my mom’s place and I would sometimes walk from my place to hers. I could be a quarter of a mile away on the road, and see the herd, and the first head to pop up would be Old Crazy’s. She always had a quick sense of movement by people. Ironically, I could drive my tractor or pickup out around her and she wouldn’t make any sudden moves. But as soon as I was on the ground, she perked her ears up and usually would run off.

Last summer, I attempted to separate her and her heifer calf. Her calf was tall and well proportioned, so I knew keeping the maniac around was worth it, if for no other reason than her calves were money makers. However, when I started to shut the gate between her calf and Old Crazy, she charged me. I once again found myself flying over the gate to escape from her vicious offensive.

It was that day that I pointed at her (from the safety of the steel gate) and yelled at her, “You’re going to leave this place dead!” She snorted and twirled in a circle, almost certainly accepting my challenge.

A few months later, I had walked over to mom’s house to visit, and as I was leaving, I noticed all the cows in the east pasture. I yelled at them and most of them lazily lifted their heads to the sound of my voice. Except for Crazy. I yelled again, and even though they were only sixty or so yard away, Old Crazy never looked up. But once I began to walk up the lane, her head popped up and she watched me intently. That’s when I discovered the source of her “craziness.” She was deaf.

I gained a little sympathy for her that day. Not much, but a little. It must be a sucky life to be a cow and to be herded about and prodded with sticks and to not be able to hear. All of a sudden, something strikes, and, with no audible warning, you’re startled and scared.

I loaded up all of my cattle yesterday and had them shipped off to sell at the auction. All, of course, but Old Crazy. I figured she might not be happy in a large field by herself, but I had no option. I needed the money. I also knew that attempting to get her up would result in her tearing up the already rickety corral. But then again, she had the whole field and a pond full of water to herself. Wouldn’t that make you happy?

Apparently, it didn’t make her happy. Before I got up this morning, mom had called twice and said that Old Crazy had jumped a fence and was in with mom’s mini horse. I drove over and sized up the situation. I told mom to call the killers. I also opened the gate back out to the field, and made my way to the other side of the small field to try to drive Crazy back out. Instead, she chose to charge right at me. I yelled and started to run, looking back so I’d know when to make a quick cut and get out of her way. Fortunately, I ran smack dab into a wild rose bush, which tripped me up. I fell to the ground and balled up, expecting to be butted about the field by an insane bovine. After a few moments, I looked up in time to see her jumping over the top of me. She then ran through first one fence, then a second, over into the large east field.

In less than an hour, the killers arrived on the scene. I rode out into the field with them, and warned the shooter that he’d better stay in the truck when he shot her or she’d come after him. He assured me, in a southern drawl, “She ain’t gonna charge me.” We found her standing underneath a tree, and the shooter grabbed his 30/30 with one hand as he switched off his pickup with the other hand. He eyed her through the scope, pulled the trigger, and said, “She ain’t gonna charge anyone now!”

I can guarantee you that none of that meanness and craziness can be tasted in fresh hamburger.

Here’s a seventh excerpt from my book:

“I had gotten pretty inebriated that night, and had passed out on Martin’s bed. As I was asleep, Darnell decided to put baby powder all over my face. I kept trying to get him to leave me alone, but he insisted on pestering me in my defenseless state.

I finally decided that I wanted to go home, and I stormed out to my car. Darnell and Kelly trailed along, because I was their ride for the evening. Darnell kept telling me that I had to take him home, which was several miles north of town. I kept insisting that I wouldn’t take him home, and that I would drop him off in town somewhere or take him back to Martin’s. At first, we were joking about it.

However, after I dropped Kelly off at his car, the tone between Darnell and I turned more serious. We came to a stop light, and Darnell kept insisting that I was going to take him home. I once again insisted that I wouldn’t, that I would take him anywhere in town, but I wouldn’t take him home. I was sick, too drunk and not in the mood to take his orders.

Finally, while still at the stoplight, Darnell said to me “Shut up or I’ll beat your a**!” Without missing a beat, I replied, “Where do you want to go?” He snapped back, “Calvary,” meaning the parking lot of Calvary Baptist Church, less that a block to our right. I immediately made the right turn once the light turned red.

As we arrived in the parking lot, we both got out and Darnell came around the car and approached me. I said, “Hold on a minute, I need to take off my watch.” I was attempting a half-hearted joke, hoping that it would lighten the ill will we suddenly had for each other. That was a mistake.

Darnell continued toward me and caught me with a right. “I don’t care about your watch!” One punch, and my bottom lip was split open. That told me that there would be no more comedy. We clashed, and he got me with several shots. We backed away from each other, and then clashed again. I was trying to take him down to the ground, but he was too fast for me. Once again, he was all over me with several shots to the face. We backed away from each other again, and on the third clash, I was finally able to get him down on the ground and get on top of him.

I told him I wasn’t going to hit him, but he kept demanding that I let him up. I told him that I wouldn’t until he calmed down. I was too sick and weak to put up a good fight, and I really wasn’t ready for this spur-of-the-moment scrap. After about ten minutes, he calmed down enough for us to begin talking in a reasonable manner. The whole time, I kept expecting a police car to come upon us with lights flashing and siren blaring, exploding upon us in the darkness. But one never came.

I finally relented and told him I would take him home. We agreed to shake hands and reconcile, and let the matter drop, but I was perturbed by the defeat. It was my first and, to date, only loss in a fist fight. Unfortunately, the reconciliation would only last a few months. Fortunately, at least for me, I would get a chance at redemption the following summer.”

Hi folks, it’s Silver here! I haven’t been posting any new videos because I’ve been working on my book, tentatively titled “SILVER 6IX: CONFESSIONS OF A GENTLEMAN FARMER.” Here is a brief excerpt:

“Going to the matches was an incredible event in a ten year old boy’s life. Dad parked in the back lot of the Memorial Hall, and as we were walking toward the front entrance, a tiny four door Honda pulled up. Out piled four huge men: Pretty Boy Doug Somers, Ron McFarlane, a Japanese wrestler (whose jet black hair covered his face) named Hiru Sonoda, and their “manager,” the hated General Skandor Akbar, who played the part of a middle eastern oil-rich sheik. My dad told me to go get an autograph, so I began to follow Akbar around the car, with a pen in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. Akbar looked over at my dad and said, “Is this yours?” My dad replied in the affirmative. Akbar simply said “Later.” He wasn’t mean about it, nor was he a jerk. He simply suggested that he would give me an autograph later. I recently read an article in a Texas newspaper with Akbar that indicated he always protected the business of wrestling, trying to keep the cloak of secrecy around the event, that it was real.”