Buffalo Head Pickle

“What kind of idiot would do that?”       

One of my coworkers asked this as he huddled with two others at a laptop computer. They were looking at You Tube videos of people encountering dangerous situations as they visited drive-through zoos – with their windows rolled down.

I pulled at my collar. “Ahem. I would.”

No one seemed surprised to learn that I was exactly that kind of idiot, but they were anxious to hear the details. So I told them about the time when my wife, Lisa, and I went to the Olympic Game Farm near Sequim, Washington. YouTube was not even a twinkle in the eyes of its founders when we ventured off as a young married couple in my old 1970 Ford Maverick, Betty.

 I never actually called my car that; but it’s more nostalgic to refer to an old car with a nickname.

For some reason that escapes me now, we thought part of a romantic getaway should include a drive through an enclosure where large unpredictable beasts have unrestricted access to your vehicle. Among other animals, the farm features a variety of bears (behind fences) that had starred in nature shows and movies such as Grizzly Adams. These former celebrities spend their leisure time here in retirement from the Hollywood lights.

After the bears, our car came to an area where emus, deer, llamas, and other animals roam without restraint within their large pasture. You’re encouraged to buy a loaf of bread to feed the bison, with one caveat. They suggest that you leave your windows open only a crack through which to feed the buffalo.

I asked, “Why? Will they bite?”

They said, “No. The worst that could happen is that you’ll get drooled on.”

But as Lisa and I entered the bison area at the Game Farm, I didn’t feel unsafe. Sure, they’re big, but they seem almost tame. Besides, with my windows cracked open only about an inch, what could happen?

As we proceeded down the winding dirt road, we fed a few slices of the game-farm-issued bread to a few buffalo without event. But about three quarters of the way through the enclosure, one certain buffalo that apparently had not eaten since the previous Thursday, took special interest in us, voraciously devouring several slices, but not leaving.

My wife said, “Roll down the window.”

“You heard what they said! Only leave it open a crack.”

“Don’t worry about it. Maybe you’ll catch a little drool. So what? Be a man.”

She continued to cast aspersion on my masculinity, until I did the manly thing by doing what I was told.

When I lowered the window, breaking the only rule they had, the buffalo wasted no time plunging his ENTIRE HEAD into my vehicle, including horns. I was amazed that it could even fit. To perform this feat, it was necessary to turn his noggin to the precise angle, clearing the parameters of the window opening. He did this with such ease; I was certain that, for him, the interior of a sedan was not virgin territory.

The stench was so overwhelming, I almost passed out. The mass of his head completely filled the space between myself and the steering wheel. My vision of anything besides a close up of the matted fur on the right side of his skull was completely occluded. As predicted, drool cascaded from his mouth, mixed with copious amounts of mucus proceeding from his snout, dripping from his beard and pooling in my lap.

I was in a pickle. A buffalo head pickle.

“Give him the rest of the loaf so he’ll pull out!”

Not only did Lisa seem disinclined, but she was rather busy taking pictures of the momentous occasion. She found it difficult to hold the Nikon steady because she was doubled over in painful laughter.

Come to think of it, the times I’ve heard my wife laugh the hardest is when she has caused me the most discomfort. For example, while we were still dating, she spilled an entire cup of very hot McDonalds coffee in my lap while I was driving Betty down the highway at sixty-five miles per hour.   

Did you know that it is possible to stand up in a 1970 Maverick while you are driving at high speed? I can attest to it.

To this day, my wife sheds tears of joy at the mere mention of the calamity.

But I digress. Getting back to the bison, I have to admit that on the one hand, I wanted to shove him back out the window. But the more reasonable part of me said that would be fruitless, and quite possibly unhealthy. Like tugging on Superman’s cape and spitting into the wind, making a 2000 pound bovine mad seems counterintuitive. I had visions of him rearing his head up, taking us and car airborne, and then shaking it with great abandon, like a baby with a new rattle.

Instead, I groped around for the loaf of bread in Lisa’s possession. Having found it, I awarded the bison with his prize, hoping that this would end our relationship.

 It didn’t.

Having consumed the rest of the bread, he stood there, apparently hoping that we would find more fodder. Was he considering moving in with us?

At this point I became aware that a logjam of cars had congregated behind us. Unable to get around us they had to be wondering what kind of an idiot would leave his window rolled down in the bison enclosure.  I decided I needed to move forward.

Slowly.

I hoped that if the forward motion didn’t make him angry, he might simply pull out. But first I had to be able to access the steering wheel. With great difficulty, I reached under his aforementioned dripping beard to find the helm, barely able to reach the wheel with the tips of my two forefingers. This posture also required me to lean in closer to the creature, becoming even more intimate with him.  I was still in gear, so I let my foot off of the brake a little. Betty inched forward.

Unfortunately, this ploy did not dissuade our newfound friend. Instead, he kept pace with the vehicle, and we led a parade through the remainder of the Game Farm. Like tango partners, Betty and the beast marched forward stoically in a collaborative effort. Since I could not see ahead, I depended on my wife for verbal guidance to keep me on the road. But the sight of the American bison walking in tandem with the car coupled with my growing consternation gave her a new round of uncontrolled mirth, making it difficult for me to understand her instructions.

At a slothful pace we somehow made it to the exit of the enclosure, where there was a cattle guard. The bison, clearly aware of the grate, extracted his head from my vehicle at the moment we came to the guard. Which was fortunate, because I didn’t want to receive a citation for failing to have a wide load permit.

It was a relief to be autonomous again, but it wasn’t until we were back at the hotel, where I removed my contaminated clothes and took a shower that I felt like I had completely left my dance partner behind.

A few years later, my younger brother told me that he was planning a visit to the Olympic Game Farm. I encouraged him to do it, and I told him to be sure to roll down the window in the bison section. “They are very friendly,” I told him.

Well, I didn’t lie!

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Have you had any amazing encounters with animals? Tell us about it!