The cow man is the first fatality in New York's Cow Parade led by 500 steers.

                                                              Cow Man Lost
in Stampede


It’s not easy being a cowboy or a cow man these days. The former has been
replaced by helicopters and Jeep Cherokee navigation systems. The latter by
500 fat, sassy, bejeweled ceramic cows that have taken up residence in New
York’s five boroughs. Since these are art cow, heavy, dour and effete, the
bulk of the herd resides in Manhattan while a few stray steers,
appropriately castrated, have found their way to Staten Island, the Bronx,
Queens, and even Brooklyn. 

According to Garrison Keilor, the cowboys have largely given up the fight
and are happy to sit in their 4X4s looking at cow bums on the radar screen
and chewing beef jerky while playing the commodities market via their
laptop computers. On the other hand, New York’s lone cow man, pen name 
Guernsey, who has been pulling Gertrude, a fiberglass cow, through the
streets of New York for years, advertising Brother Jimmy’s barbecue
restaurants in Upper Manhattan, is not sanguine about this bovine
intrusion. In fact, he is outraged. “I bet these interlopers don’t even
have cow passports,” moaned Guernsey who readily displays his green cards,
including one for Gertrude. “Frankly, I consider these cows illegal
immigrants who are taking work away from legal Americans.”

That is not all the invaders are taking from Guernsey. The cow man has
overnight become a small cow in a big trough populated by art cows that
sport diamond chokers, high heels, and slip dresses. “I simply can’t
compete with this well-funded corporate effort to put me out of business,”
Guernsey explains. “Just look at the sponsor list: Citicorp, Disney, the
NRA, the Cuban Consulate, exiled Latvian mushroom pickers, and the Burundi
Beef Council. Most of these make sense but what is the Burundi Beef Council
up to.  I know they have advertised elsewhere for unwanted by-products of
industrial beef processing, including fat, gristle, organs, muscles, skin,
eyes, hooves and cartilage. But these cows don’t have much gristle and they
are quite vacant on the inside.”

Guernsey is even more furious at the tender-loving care the cow herd gets.
“When Gertrude has a skin or horn problem, I take care of it. No big deal.
She’s family and I don’t mind patching her up. After all, she has no health
insurance. But these art cows. As soon as they get a slight headache or
hoof ache, off they go to a  Park Avenue animal hospital. I even heard of
one cow, supposedly suffering from mad cow tremors, was taken to
Sloan-Kettering for treatment. This is nuts. That cow might have been
painted by Max Franx, but she’s still a cow and should wait in line with
the rest of the homeless.

What hurts Guernsey most of all is, after years of making a name for
himself in Manhattan, he has become generic. Even worse, he is being
accused by tourists from New Jersey of copying the cow motif.” I can’t tell
you how much this hurts my self esteem,” laments the cow man. “I don’t mind
sleeping under Grand Central, finishing half-eaten hamburgers discarded by
bankers, and being unable to afford Nike’s. These are issues I discuss with
my therapist. But being accused of plagiarism, after giving my life to the
cow beat, is very debilitating.  The cow man has painted on Gertrude’s
broad flank, “I am the original cow,” which draws jeers from tourists who
refuse to take his picture. That is the final insult.

The art cows are a treasure hunters trove and horns, udders, and ears are
regularly being stolen by cows lovers. But Gertrude remains safe.  “I leave
her unprotected overnight and nothing happens,” the cow man complains.
“Rather, people leave donations of hay, cheese, and spinal columns from a
Brooklyn rendering plant.  I am at my wits end. I can’t give Gertrude
away.”

Guernsey takes some comfort in the fact that the cows will be leaving soon,
sold to art collectors on Manhattan’s Upper West Side who are interested in
conversation pieces and coat racks. “Maybe I can get my life and good name
back after these interlopers go home.”

He is worried that Gertrude will never be the same. “I am used to turns of
bad luck. I am surrounded by the rich and take it in stride. But Gertrude
has never seen another cow before. And her first sighting is a cow on Park
Avenue with a Fendi bag and Armani shawl. I tried to cover the Rolex so she
wouldn’t feel even more depressed. Now she is putting demands on me. I
avoid Fifth Avenue like the plague and that is hurting the restaurant’s
business.”

Guensey is thinking about initiating legal action against the Cow Parade
for loss of business and self esteem. He’s not the only one. Asians born in
the Year of the Cow are incensed that the cow is getting so much attention
this year, when the rabbit should be the one celebrated.

The cow man is thinking about switching to a pig on a tricycle but is
afraid that he won’t get the same warm reception from New Yorkers.

The pig is the cleanest animal around, the cow man asserts, “but try
telling that  to people who spend most of their day picking up after
miniature poodles.”

To get a little more sympathy for his new creation cow man is thinking of
wrapping his pig in a blanket.

“Now we’re talking turkey,” he declares.