Bill leaned over the edge of the stone wall, trying to see what could possibly fascinate an animal for half a decade. Below him was nothing but a pitch-black void. He picked up a small pebble and dropped it. A few seconds later, there was a faint, muffled *plink*. There was still a bit of liquid down there, despite the well being “dry” for years.
Just then, his wife Mary called out from the back porch, telling him breakfast was on the table. Mary, his partner of twenty-two years, was the practical backbone of the operation. A former schoolteacher, she had a sharp mind and a no-nonsense attitude. She had chosen the farm life over a career in the city, and Bill knew he’d be lost without her steady hand and quiet wisdom.
She was his sounding board for everything, from crop rotations to raising their son, Alex. Bill called back that he was coming, but he lingered for another minute. It bothered him that the other cows avoided the well entirely, preferring the open pasture or the shade of the oaks. Only Bessie had this obsessive, almost ritualistic connection to the old shaft.
Over coffee and eggs, Bill brought it up again. Mary poured him a refill and suggested that maybe Bessie could hear an underground spring. She reminded him that animals have instincts humans lost a long time ago—they can feel vibrations and shifts in the earth that we completely miss.
Bill shook his head skeptically. He’d been down that well three years ago to pull out an old pump, and there was nothing but a few inches of stagnant, foul-smelling sludge. Mary then joked that maybe there were rats nesting in the stones, and Bessie was just being nosy. Bill didn’t laugh. To him, the behavior was too deliberate, too focused to be about a few rodents.
What struck him most was the timing. Bessie was as precise as a clock. Every morning at 6:00 AM, she took her post. At 11:00 AM sharp, she would let out a single low moo, turn around, and rejoin the herd as if nothing had happened. For the rest of the day, she was a perfectly normal cow.
There were no signs of illness. Her milk production was the highest in the herd, her coat was glossy, and her appetite was healthy. Mary finally suggested they call Doc Peterson, the local vet, just to rule out any neurological issues. She hoped a professional opinion would finally put Bill’s mind at ease.
Doc Peterson was a man who had seen everything in his thirty years of practice. He listened to Bill’s story while stroking his gray beard, looking thoughtful. Eventually, he told Bill that animals often develop “stereotypical behaviors”—harmless quirks that don’t have a medical cause. He suggested there might be a high-pitched hum from the old pipes or a specific scent that Bill’s nose couldn’t catch.
The vet gave Bessie a full physical and found her to be in peak condition. Heart, lungs, and reflexes were all perfect. He told Bill it was likely just a “security blanket” behavior and nothing to worry about.
