They're only seven in number, but they're big-about nine hundred pounds each. And one heifer is enormously pregnant. Shame on her, joining that pack of runaways! Dr. Phil would have something to say to her, I'll bet.

I can't be sure, but probably that bulging heifer now dearly wants to be back in Gerry Day's fenced pasture, secure and well fed. When Anne and I spotted her on the past Sunday, she was standing with the other runaways in our big hay field, looking miserable. The whole time we watched, Mattie (not her real name) never joined the others in grazing on the new grass. Instead she just stood, head down, her back legs splayed to support an udder swollen with milk and bigger than a bushel basket.

Beside being really uncomfortable, she must be confused, too. Nobody explained to Mattie what is now happening to her-certainly not that damned bull. She's been feeling poorly for weeks, and now sudden twists and bumps occur deep inside her. And with every step, that huge bag, stretched and prickly, almost knocks her off her hoofs. Each bit of stubble that pokes it makes her wince.

No question, Mattie should never have gotten in with that high-kicking crowd. But they had all been excited that day, mooing and milling around. Linda and John Kosmer, who are building a home up on Day Road, believe they know what started the ruckus. They're having a well drilled, and they think that the machine's steady, heavy thumping spooked the heifers.

Maybe so. Or maybe boredom or high spirits sent them over that low spot in the fence. I imagine Mattie hanging back uncertainly as the others cleared the wire like cows jumping over the moon. But then Mattie made her own move, abruptly following the crowd. (We're never more herd animals than when we're teens, right? And, after all, you're only a heifer once.)

Whatever the cause, out they all went, first onto the gravel of Day Road, then, giddy with freedom, into the mowed hayfield on the other side. But that wasn't enough. Some troublemaker among them took charge and led them through that field, into the Senifs' yard, then onto the edge of Route 26. That's where my startled wife saw them. She pulled up short as they started across the roadway to disappear into the tall corn. That was Friday, Aug. 18, the day of the breakout.

When Anne got home she phoned the Days at once. But of course it was too late. By the time Gerry could get there, that bunch of excited teens was deep into the cornfield near The Cornfields. Acres of tall stalks there made a great hiding place. Gerry tried to rout them out, as did his wife and his son and assorted friends. But no luck.

A cow breakout was the last thing Gerry needed. A hard-working dairy farmer, he'd just finished an especially hard, rainy haying time. With all the cutting, baling, loading, hauling, and stowing thousands of bales finally done, Gerry had started to settle back to his ordinary level of grinding work. That has him up before light to hook forty-four cows to the milking machines. Next comes a morning of sterilizing the equipment, then cleaning stalls, feeding, shifting stock from field to field, till it's time for evening milking. Then more sterilizing. That's Gerry's life, seven days a week.

Having the heifers in his field up on Day Road, away from the dairy herd, made things a little easier - or did, till one found that low spot in the fence. Now Gerry and his family are losing part of each day to fruitless searches. On Sunday the 20th, Anne and I got caught up in the quest.

We were in the kitchen when I glanced out front to see men across the road, looking anxiously our way and waving their arms. "Are we on fire?" I thought, and headed out the back door to check. I got no farther than the porch when, just outside the screening, a cavalcade of heifers clomped up the driveway. They headed through our back yard, the waving men following.

The more people you have to herd loose cows, the better; and so Anne and I joined the wavers as they drove them down our other driveway and swung them left on Allison Road. The heifers' turn was too broad, and they tromped through our neighbor's side yard before heading down Allison, toward the bridge.

Now we're on track, I thought. If we get them across the bridge and swing them left, they're on their way to Gerry's farm and captivity again. But, as Arrie Hecox used to say, "Cows hate bridges!" These heifers, true to form, caught sight of the bridge and suddenly veered left, across the Prestons' lawn, and crashed into our woods along Oaks Creek.

It wasn't hard to follow their wide trail through the shady woods. It led about a quarter mile and then broke into the sunlight again-at the back of our big hayfield on Allison Road.

Now was the time to try swinging them back toward Day Road, where the whole mess started. But no. Those flighty heifers wheeled and headed southwest, forded Fly Creek, and disappeared into the tall corn again. My heart ached for Gerry as he stood, slowly shaking his head.

Keep a watch for those heifers, please. Call Gerry, especially if you see them trekking toward Milford or lined up to board a bus for somewhere. Those girls all need to come back home. Especially Mattie.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. Learn about his book at JimAtwell.com.