I was in middle of cleaning out an old storage closet when my neighbour called. “Are you aware that you have a cow attached to your back garden wall?” “A what?” “A cow. A brown and white Guernsey, I believe. Attached to the back garden wall.” “Don’t be absurd.” “I’m not. Come round and see for yourself.” And indeed there was a cow… a brown and white… attached to the back garden wall, its rear hooves about two feet off the ground. It munched on some overground bushes. It appeared quite content to be there… although, being a cow, how can one tell for certain? “How on earth…” “I have no idea. Are you sure it wasn’t there when you went to bed last night?” “Of course it wasn’t! Here, you take its forelegs; I’ll take the back. Let’s get it on the ground where it belongs.” But when we tried to pull it loose, the poor beast brayed so piteously that we stopped. Someone across the way yelled out, “Here now! What’re you two doing with that cow?” “Nothing!” I shouted back. “Then why is it there?” “I have no idea!!” I yelled in reply. For its part, the cow looked up at my neighbour, then returned to contentedly munching on the bushes. “I don’t understand,” I said. “There’s no fresh mortar. What’s holding it there?” “Perhaps someone out for a lark?” “Pasting a one-ton cow to my back wall? A lark?? What am I supposed to do with it now?” “”Milk it, I suppose.” “Honestly — “ “Dear chap, I have no idea. I’m out of my depth when it comes to cows attached to brickwork.” “And I’m not???… I was planning on planting rhododendrons there.” “And now you’re not.” We stared at the cow. In response, it appeared to ignore us. “You realize this makes absolutely no sense,” I finally said. “Never look a gift cow in the mouth, I always say.” In the month since its arrival, neighbourhood fascination with the cow has diminished; it is now simply part of our little world, and no one questions it. I have figured up a little shed for it to protect it from the elements. The back garden grows wild. I milk it daily — the udders are at just the right height, it seems, and the milk itself is of excellent quality, one I share it with all who ask. And the cow itself simply hangs there, its back legs two feet off the ground, its mouth contentedly full of overgrown bushes. The neighbourhood children have named it Elsie. Not the most original name for a cow — let alone one as original as this — but it makes them happy. They visit her daily, after school. Perhaps she enjoys their visits. But who can tell? I daresay one morning I shall wake up, and the cow will be gone, as mysteriously and strangely as she arrived. And I’m not sure how I’ll feel about that. Surprisingly, I’ve grown attached to the beast, as attached as she is to my garden wall. Ah, time for the afternoon milking.