Clown Baby

We raced blindly down the gravel road on our bikes. All we knew was that Clown Baby was right behind us and if he caught up to us, we would be in big trouble.

Clown Baby was a young bull calf that my dad was raising for the summer. Even though we loved reaching through the bars of his pen to feed him carrots and feel his black, sandpaper tongue-- we knew better than to actually get inside!

Clown Baby’s little nubby horns were pushing up through the hair on his head. He loved to push against our hands and we could see the glitter in his eyes when he did it. Dad warned us again and again that Clown Baby would hurt us if we ventured too close.

To this day, I have no idea how he got out, but he was not only mean, he was smart! One minute, we were circling the yard on our bikes, the next minute—here he came. A black and white streak headed right towards us.

We took off down the driveway as fast as we could peddle. Up the hill was a big left-over pile of dirt from building the road. We raced towards it—jumped off our bikes and scrambled to the top as quickly as we could. In terror we watched Clown Baby lunging towards us!

Dad roared up the driveway in his old Willy’s Jeep. He jumped out, yelling, “Clown Baby!” The sound of his voice must have distracted that calf, because he swung around and put his head down—charging right for my dad!

A quickly swung rope brought Clown Baby to a halt and dad tossed that calf right over the side of the pickup and jumped right in after him—tying him up snug!

We were all crying and blubbering as we staggered down that dirt pile into dad’s open arms! I didn’t know it then, but that night after we went to bed, I heard him tell my mom, “Man, was I scared! When I saw the hole in the fence where that little sucker crawled through—I knew he’d head right for the kids!”

I rolled over and went to sleep. Boy, did I love my dad!