Next thing he knows, somebody’s knocking on the front door. Knocking hard, like he can’t even see the kids out in the yard and send them in to call him out. He knows who it probably is, though. He knows it’s probably Hereford Mullins, another neighbor, about that break in the fence, where his cows are out in the road. Mr. P. knows the fence is down. He knows his cows are out in the road, too. But he just can’t seem to face it today. It seems like people just won’t leave him alone.

He doesn’t much like Hereford Mullins anyway. Never has. Not since that night at the high school basketball game when their team won and Hereford Mullins tried to vault over the railing in front of the seats and landed on both knees on the court, five feet straight down, trying to grin like it didn’t hurt.

Mr. P. thinks he might just get up and go out on the front porch and slap the shit out of Hereford Mullins. He gets up and goes out there.

It’s Hereford, all right. Mr. P. stops inside the screen door. The kids are still screaming in the yard, getting their school clothes dirty. Any other time they’d be playing with old Frank. But old Frank can’t play with them now. Old Frank’s busy getting his eyeballs picked out right now probably by some buzzards down in the pasture.

“Ye cows out in the road again,” says Hereford Mullins. “Thought I’d come up here and tell ye.”

“All right,” says Mr. P. “You told me.”

“Like to hit em while ago,” says Hereford Mullins. “I’d git em outa the road if they’s mine.”

“I heard you the first time,” says Mr. P.

“Feller come along and hit a cow in the road,” goes on Hereford Mullins, “he ain’t responsible. Cows ain’t sposed to be in the road. Sposed to be behind a fence.”

“Get off my porch,” says Mr. P.

“What?”

“I said get your stupid ass off my porch,” Mr. P. says.

Hereford kind of draws up, starts to say something, but leaves the porch huffy. Mr. P. knows he’ll be the owner of a dead cow within two minutes. That’ll make two dead cows, counting the one in the barn not quite dead yet that he’s already out seventy-five simoleans on.

He goes back to the couch.

Now there’ll be a lawsuit, probably. Herf’ll say his neck’s hurt, or his pickup’s hurt, or something else. Mr. P. reaches under the couch again and feels it again. It’s cold and hard, feels scary.