The moonlit dirt road shimmered under my feet in the dark as if I were walking on stars. My companions for this hike were Missy, the Scottish Highlander cow, and six Angus heifers. I had not planned this late-night walk; it was the consequence of negligence.

When a 2,000-pound creature decides you’re worth listening to, it feels a little like magic. Not the glittery fairy-tale kind—more like the “pinch me, I can’t believe this works” kind. The kind of magic we could all use.

Horned cattle may not be as danerous as they look.

Two-month-old Owen, a Scottish Highland steer with bangs that could rival any rock star, decided one day that he was not having it. The lead rope went tight—he pulled back like a mule, sprang forward like a kangaroo, and then flopped on the ground. From beneath his shaggy forelock, his left eye glared up at me as if to say, “Lady, you’ve got the wrong steer.”