There's a place in New Hampshire far from the maddened crowd where I used to go hiking alone.

The only reminder of civilization I would encounter was a brief glimpse of a pasture where a couple cows occasionally grazed.

Somebody I knew must have owned those cows, so somebody must have lived nearby.

And one day, after passing the pasture, I met that somebody.

He came running up behind me, shouting.

Sir, sir, how many cows did you see? How many cows did you see, sir?

I stopped walking and turned with a smile. I lived and worked in the city where the problems were...

Gordian knots of human entanglement gave you ulcers.

And this man here, standing in front of me, and muddy overalls, and heaving to catch his breath, had a much quaintier problem.

He had lost a cow, so I figured.

I don't know. I said, I didn't count him.

What do you, sir? Would you go back and count them?

I bit my lip to keep them laughing. Sure thing, my man.

Thank you, sir. The man gushed as we walked together back down the trail towards the pasture.

When he arrived, true to my word, I counted the cows.

Twelve, I replied, turning to the man. You got twelve cows.

You certain? Could you count one more time just to be absolutely sure?

I was a little insulted at the insinuation that I didn't know how to count, but I humored him.

Oh, I said after taking a recount of the cows.

Guess I missed one. There's thirteen. Thirteen cows. I counted again.

Yep, thirteen cows. The man groaned. That's what I thought, sir.

I appreciate your time and apologize for the intrusion. Thank you.

...