Battle of the 'bands' pits man against bovine

“Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’
You’re stayin alive, stayin’ alive ...”

— “Stayin’ Alive,”
Saturday Night Fever,
The Bee Gees, 1977

I’m a product of the 80’s, when teased bangs and tight-rolled stonewashed jeans first flashed onto the fashion scene. Yet every now and then, another decade beckons me back to the days of silver sequins, platform shoes and disco dance moves.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha — stayin’ alive, stayin alive,” I sang along with the Bee Gees last Friday night, while my best friend Kris and I traveled a rural road we Epsom natives call Moonshine Alley.

We were mid-chorus, cackling and clapping to the 1970’s chart-topper, when an unsuspecting stranger sallied up beside of us – breaking our midnight musical bond with the Gibb brothers’ band.

“Whoa!” Kris shouted, as she slammed her Subaru to a screeching stop.

Initially, I was oblivious to our approaching roadside rascal. Such ignorance was a short-lived bliss shattered by the shining of a single headlight on our horned and hoofed spectator.

“Watch out for that cow!” I bellowed my belated warning as my best friend stared straight ahead at an ol’ black cow.

Now, it’s been said that animals travel in pairs – meaning where there’s one critter, or in this case “cow,” there’s another mate nearby. And sure enough, there was a converging of cattle that night, out on Moonshine Alley.

The ol’ black cow sounded a mournful “moo.” And in answer to his “call of the wild,” two dark drifters emerged from the neighboring pasture, crossing its broken fence line.

As the newly formed bovine band plodded alongside our Subaru for a Friday night stroll, the once tall and trim Barry Gibb continued to sing his “Saturday Night Fever” chart-topper.

“We’ve got to be careful,” Kris said as she tapped the gas pedal of the stationary Subaru, inadvertently alerting the herd of our homeward route.

“Moo,” moaned the crowd of cows, as they moved closer to our creeping car.

“Cows’ll chase cars just like dogs,” I cried to Kris, while the trio trotted alongside us.

“I know!” Kris replied, as the cattle congregation commenced to a gallop, mooing as it moved down Moonshine Alley.

Suddenly, “Stayin’ Alive” seemed more like a mission than a disco dance favorite.

Admittedly, this is the moment I abandoned my best friend. Shutting my eyes tight, I grabbed hold of the car’s seat cushion and cried out for divine intervention.

And sure enough, the Lord did provide.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha — stayin’ alive, stayin alive,” sang the Bee Gees, as if beckoning Kris to gun the gas pedal. And after we prayed a hurried, “Hallelujah, Amen!” our Subaru squealed away from the mad-cow caper.

Some consider divine intervention to be an outfit of winged angels, heaven-sent to help us in our times of trouble. And I’d have to agree. Yet, there are those exceptions. As was the case last Friday night, when another sort of band saved my best friend and me from a crowd of cows out on Moonshine Alley.