Karen returned two days later. She parked in the exact same spot, crushing another section of corn. "The cul-de-sac is crowded," she stated simply. "You farmers are very territorial."
"That is another word for owning something," I replied.
Karen was not using a shortcut; she was establishing dominance. In her mind, every time she crossed my field without consequence, the crossing became more legitimate. Soon, her behavior spread.
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A minivan parked near my irrigation equipment.
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Two SUVs used the field during a neighborhood block party.
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A sedan drove entirely around my locked driveway gate by tearing up the grass.
I photographed everything. But the situation escalated from a nuisance to a tragedy the day Karen brought her dog.
It was a tiny white animal wearing a pink harness. She released it beside the cattle pasture and allowed it to run loose. The dog charged the fence, barking wildly, and my cattle scattered in a panic.
One pregnant heifer named Daisy slipped on the wet ground and fell hard against a wooden post.
"Call your dog!" I yelled, running toward the fence.
"He’s playing," Karen smiled, leaning against her SUV. "Train your animals not to be so dramatic."
Daisy struggled to stand, her hind leg trembling violently. Something in my voice must have finally reached Karen because she collected her dog and sped off. The veterinarian arrived an hour later, but it was too late. Daisy had suffered severe stress. Two days later, she lost the calf.
I sat beside her in the barn as she gently nudged the still body with her nose. Farm animals do not grieve exactly like people, but they deeply notice absence.