My wife collects cow art. I don’t think it was anything she planned, or if it was even her idea. She once worked for the state cattle growers association and has always had an “Eat Beef” license on the front of her car. So, I suspect someone gave her a small cow knick-knack.

Later, a neighbor was visiting, saw the knick-knack and concluded she collected cows! When the occasion arose for a gift, that same neighbor gave my wife another cow knick-knack. An avalanche began. Now our house is festooned with photos, paintings, statuettes, refrigerator magnets, key chains, temp tats, sweaters, sweatshirts and hoof and horn motif.

When cities began displaying life-sized painted plastic cows on street corners and in store windows, the barrage increased. I’ve never quite understood the painted cow (or horse, or buffalo, or wombat) art, though it’s very creative. A piano company for instance would display a grand cow with her rib cage propped open and a keyboard for teeth. A jeweler would have a water belly steer covered with glistening calculi stones, and a Mexican food restaurant’s cow would look like a piñata.

But where did the idea come from? I think I know. The story has been passed down through the generations of Sierra Nevada ranchers, California vaqueros and sale barn bull haulers until it has achieved legendary proportions.

Señor Geraldo, rich rancher, good neighbor and Angus man noticed one of his bulls was gone. He called his neighbor, another wealthy landlord and cattle baron. Sure enough, Geraldo’s bull was running rampant in the neighbor’s pen of crossbred heifers. Señor Geraldo saddled his registered purebred, standing-at-stud stallion, loaded and trailered him to the neighbors, sorted off the bull and with much whacking and colorful drover language, trailered him home.

The next morning the bull had escaped and returned to the neighbor’s fertile playground. Geraldo repeated the saddling, loading, whacking and cursing but the bull stood his ground. Help was called. A local cowboy saddled, loaded and drove to lend assistance. Alas, even two buen caballeros could not move the stubborn bull.

Geraldo returned home dejected. Riding in he noticed his three sons, Prince One, Two and Three practicing with their paint ball guns. An idea formed. He loaded the young princes and their armory into the old GMC ranch truck and returned to the neighbors. With the windows rolled down and boys sticking out like queens on a parade float, he drove up behind the bull and ordered, “Open Fire!” They fired, circled, reloaded, fired, circled, constantly moving closer to the corral gate until the bull finally tucked his tail and retreated.

The truck, both inside and out was thoroughly painted, as were the pistoleros, half the cows, the back of Geraldo’s hat and one side mirror now hung like a broken arm. But at least half of the paint balls had struck their target. The bull looked like a stained glass window. Had it not been for his pendulous sheath and white spot on his belly you would not have known he was an Angus.

And this began the ancient tradition of painting urban cows ... honest ... no bull.