When I was fifteen I could lure the cows from the barnyard up to the night pasture with a promise of apples and the expectation of a starlit night. Willy would lead the way and the others would follow through the woods in a straggling bovine procession.

High on the open field that was the night pasture I would knock runty Baldwins to the ground and chuck them downhill where they'd be rooted from the grass by snuffling cows, their near vision compromised by side-mounted eyes.

But that was very long ago. Nowadays the cows sleep in the barn, the apple trees are all but gone, and I do shoulder exercises in the distant hope of encountering a cow and an apple at the same time.