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Betsie (adapted, credit USFWS)

‘Twas getting dark and mighty cloudy as I consulted, yet again, the map. An X, in red like clotted blood, marked dead Betsie’s buried treasure. That magnificent cow had plowed these oceans, churning the sea foam to cream, for years beyond her species, yet in the end we all come to naught… She mooed her last moo beneath the moon, and hid this map in her very own cowbell, whence I found it floating in the ocean some two weeks prior.

Apologies, again, for the inconsistencies of my posts. Events such as the Cowbell of 2012 tend to distract.

In any case, I made hasty haste to the udder-shaped island. I soon ran into troubles. I had marked on a dotted line the most direct direction to the treasure, straight as an arrow she flies, and the wind would not have it.

Oh ho ho no, the wind would blow sideways, wouldn’t it.

Then, dear friends, last week I read about a GPS for sailing! Rather than pointing as the crow flies (or in this case, cow), it shows the ideal zigzag to tack, catching the optimum amount of oomph from an errant wind.

By adding in the size of my substantial boat, and the speed of the prevailing wind, it does all the brain work for me to get me to the X quickest. Quite clever. At $399, it’s a steal!

So I followed it, on and on, night and day without pause.

And there she lays, like a speck of cheese, the island.

Before long I was there, on her, traipsing across the lands dotted here and there with milk vetch, all over with long and luscious green grass. Across the hill, through the shrubs, into a lowland meadow, and ah. The cross. Thoughtfully decorated in large cow pats, courtesy of Betsie herself I’d wager, which I carefully avoid with my boots.

Then, with my shovel, I dig.

Down and down, further than you would think possible for a bovine with hooves and not hands, but Betsie and her crew were of a brilliant breed, as all who did battle with those cattle will attest. Down and down, until the stars wink and glitter at me. Down and down and DRING! There it is!

Brass and mahogany, the chest gleams under my lamplight. With shaking fingers I open the latch.

Peeouw! What a whiff!

‘Twas nothing but goat’s cheese.

Well I sealed it, hoisted it up and got back on me boat. Perhaps I can sell it in port, and make me funds back on this awesome GPS (as seen on Gizmodo.)