I am an average golfer. I hit more good shots than bad. Occasionally, I score well. I have colleagues I play with and over the years we have had some good laughs at the spectacularly bad shots we are capable of making during a round. At Camelback, I hit a ball into someone’s pool while they were swimming. A heated exchange of words followed:

“What the hell is your problem?”
“Sorry about that. Shot got away from me.”
“Away from you? They shouldn’t allow guys like you on the course.”
“Listen: I said I was sorry. Can I have my ball back?”
“Up yours.”

At Crystal Springs (New Jersey), I hit a tee shot that ricocheted off a Weber Bar-B-Cue kettle onto someone’s roof. That ding sounded like a sonic boom and was about the loudest noise anyone has ever made on a golf course. And at Montclair, where I am a member, I hit a tee shot that smashed into a car windshield in a distant parking lot, shattering the glass. Of course, I am not the only one in my group capable of poor shot making. One of my partners, John Adams, once shanked a three wood, driving a ball into a Mexican groundskeeper while playing a course in southern California. John speaks a little Spanish, and put it to good use that day.

Today, however, I did something I never have done before during a round of golf. Today I hit a cow. A fucking cow, in a field of cows, adjacent to the 5th fairway on Antigonish golf course. My playing partners were Lochy and Tom:

“Oh my.” Lochy.
“Sweet Mother Mary.” Tom
“I believe he hit a cow, eh.”
“Yup.”
“Ever seen anyone hit a cow before?”
“Nope.”
“Well, Paul, I believe that’s a first.”
“You think so?” Me. Pissed off.
“Yes I do.”
“A first for sure.”

There are moments when you regret not having your camera readily available and this was certainly one of them. There we were, the three of us, standing in the 5th fairway, looking at a pasture full of cows, one of them angry.

“Is that out of bounds?” Me.
“Oh my. Must be.” Lochy.
“Well I wouldn’t want to have to play that shot in any case, eh?” Tom.
“Oh no. That could get messy, eh?” Laughter (not from me).

So you take a penalty, drop a ball in the fairway, hit again. This was not a round where you were scoring well, so it doesn’t make that much of a difference. This is the second course you’ve played in Nova Scotia, the first was Digby Pines, and both tracks are enormously appealing, if you like wind, narrow fairways, tiny greens, trekking up and down hills like a big horn sheep, and the possibility of having shots trail out of bounds into a meadow full of livestock (or woods full of bear and/or moose). On the other hand, the people you have met at both courses could not have been nicer, and seem to enjoy your company and especially your curious ball flight.

“Not sure I’d hit a driver here.” Lochy.
“No?” Me.
“Well, you see, that last hole, the landing area was a site bigger than the one here.”
“Umm.”
“And you’re a basher, for sure.” Tom.
“I hit a long ball.”
“Mostly in the wrong direction, eh?” Lochy. More laughter.
“You’ve already hit a cow.” Tom.
“Maybe you’ll hit the tatie bogle next.” Lochy.

Then you remember: this sabbatical was not about playing golf.