(Paul Bunyan’s Neighbor Speaks)

Now, before we get started, I’d like to state for the record that I bear no ill will toward Paul Bunyan.

He’s a decent enough fellow.

Pays his debts.

Tips his hat.

Keeps mostly to hisself.

The problem ain’t Paul.

The problem is that Paul owns livestock the size of a geological feature.

The Ox

Now everybody loves Babe.

Can’t get enough of him.

Children adore him.

Storytellers celebrate him.

Artists paint him.

Meanwhile, I spent forty-two years livin’ next door to what was essentially a mobile wreckin’ crew.

The First Incident

The first time Babe wandered onto my property, I assumed the horizon had developed a color problem.

I was sittin’ on my porch drinkin’ coffee when I noticed somethin’ blue approachin’.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Growin’ larger.

My wife stepped outside.

Looked once.

Then said:

“Well, that can’t be good.”

She weren’t wrong.

A Matter of Grazing

Now a normal cow eats grass.

A normal ox eats somewhat more grass.

Babe consumed entire agricultural systems.

You’d wake up with a pasture.

By supper, you’d have a memory.

The Fence Problem

Do you know how much fence a blue ox can destroy without even noticin’ it?

Neither do I. I don’t reckon anybody does.

Because the answer exceeds mathematics.

One afternoon, Babe scratched an itch.

That’s all.

Just scratched.

By sunset, I was negotiatin’ new property boundaries with three counties.

The Watering Issue

Then there was the creek.

I had a perfectly respectable creek.

Nothing fancy.

Just enough water for practical purposes.

One dry summer, Babe took a drink.

One drink.

The fish had to walk home.

Paul’s Explanation

Whenever I’d complain, Paul would nod thoughtfully and say:

“Babe didn’t mean no harm.”

Now I don’t doubt that.

A tornado generally don’t mean no harm either.

Yet insurance forms continue to exist.

The Winter of Blue Snow

Nobody talks about this.

They should.

One particularly cold winter, Babe turned so blue against the snow that sunlight reflected off him.

For three months, nobody could look west before noon.

The chickens developed opinions.

The Property Assessment

A government man came through once to assess land values.

Spent all day takin’ notes.

Measurein’.

Calculatin’.

Then Babe walked past.

The assessor watched him for a long time.

Closed his notebook.

And wrote:

“Situation beyond current guidelines.”

The Tourist Problem

Once the stories spread, tourists started arrivin’.

Now tourists are bad enough at the best of times.

But giant-ox tourists are worse.

Every one of them askin’:

“Where’s Babe?”

As if I kept him in a shed.

Friend, if I knew where Babe was at any given moment, I’d have achieved a level of agricultural management previously unknown to mankind.

The Truth About Paul

Now I don’t want you to think I disliked Paul.

Truth is, he was a good neighbor.

Whenever Babe accidentally flattened a barn, Paul would build a new one.

Usually, a bigger one.

Sometimes in a different county.

But still.

It’s the thought that counts.

The Last Straw

One spring mornin’ I woke up and discovered a hill where my garden used to be.

Not damaged.

Not disturbed.

Replaced.

I marched straight over to Paul’s place.

Pointed at the hill.

And asked:

“Would you care to explain that?”

Paul looked.

Thought about it.

Then said:

“Babe sneezed.”

Closing Observation

So yes, Babe was a sure ’nuff magnificent creature.

Majestic.

A wonder of nature.

A legend.

All of that’s true.

But if you’re askin’ me what a blue ox does to property values…

The answer is simple.

He turns real estate into folklore.

And that, as near as I can determine from forty-two years of involuntary observation, is how I became the only man in America whose livestock complaints could be seen from space.