Finally, a DC insider tell-all book in which the author admits to being a lonely voice of caution that no one heeded
Amazon should have an entire book category called "If Only They Had Listened To Me"
I am writing the draft of my memoir "Reckoning: the Holstein Incident" detailing how I warned Brian Shnitker not to tip that cow
It was a cool gray March in Kingsley, and I recall I had just finished delivering hot meals to needy community seniors.
I stopped in at "Scootch's," a local community gathering place, for a glass of refreshing milk. Brian furtively summoned me to his table.
He was there with Craig Gartz, Kurt Vandeberg, and other cognoscenti of the Kingsley scene. I was shocked to smell beer on their breath.
"Hey Dave," he asked furtively, "we know you don't do this sort of thing, but are you in for smashing mailboxes and tipping cows later?"
I was so shocked by the question, I jumped out of my chair and nearly spilled my delicious glass of milk.
The idea that I would agree to participate in their "pranks" hurt me deeply, as they knew my fondness for mailboxes and milk-giving cows.
But yet I knew all too well if I didn't go along, I risked losing my career as a selfless hot meal provider to Kingsley's senior community.
I did what I could to convince others in the back of the pickup against Brian's plan, as we hurtled down the gravel road to the dairy farm.
But my repeated warnings fell on deaf ears, as Brian and the others hopped out of the truck and staggered ominously towards the cow.
"Brian! This is sheer folly!" I shouted in one last vain attempt to stop him, but the others disdainfully urged him to reject my counsel.
I watched in horror as Brian struggled gamely in the mud to fell the sleeping Holstein, when suddenly it toppled over him, as if pushed by some mysterious force from the other side.
What caused the cow to crush Brian that night? Was it the mud, or a drunken saboteur within his own camp? I pondered the possibilities as I sobbed in the pickup bed a full 50 rock-solid alibi yards from the scene.
"You fellows stay here while I call for help!" I shouted, selflessly volunteering to commandeer Craig's pickup, not knowing an anonymous Good Samaritan would later call 911 to report the tragic bovine vandalism gone wrong.
And as a shocking coda to that terrible night, a mysterious car thief would later steal Craig's truck from my driveway and crash it into the Pronto.
Brian spent the next 6 weeks in traction. I visited him an hour each day, helping him refresh his understandably fuzzy recollections of that night.
As for me, I often pray to God for answers. Is there more I could have done to prevent Brian's crushing and the arrests of the others?
"No Dave," God says. "We're cool."
THE END
"No Dave," God says. "We're cool."
THE END
