At about dawn, I called one of my neighbors and said “Your cows have eaten my lettuce, they’re shitting on my porch, and I’m going to kill every one of the bastards if you don’t get them out of here in 10 minutes.”
At that point in my killing rage, I was advised that the laws of Colorado make it mandatory for a landowner to fence his land against the entrance of cattle—rather than requiring the owner of the cattle to fence them in.
In other words, the burden is on the afflicted … at which point I said that I really wanted the cows in my yard, because it gave me an opportunity to practice random high-speed patterns on my motorcycle—running the cows hither and yon across the landscape, burning off valuable pounds of market meat in the process, and chasing the bastards till they foam at the mouth and fall in their tracks. (The bulls are tricky; they don’t always run, and when they charge you have to be very fast and cool with the gear-changes—or they’ll crush you.)
— Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in America, 1968
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