Ginnie told me to rent the metal detector again and search for the ring one more time before she bought me a new one. My 70th birthday was fast approaching (70!) and Ginnie was going to buy me a new wedding ring as a present. You may recall Blossom, our Angus heifer calf, had sucked the wedding ring off my finger. I figured scanning her pen again was useless, that there was no way I was going to find that wedding ring.
Several veterinarians had told me that, considering a cow has four stomachs, there was no way a small wedding ring was going to pass through. I would have to wait until slaughter and have the butcher find it.
For two months, I had patiently and diligently, like a surgeon performing brain surgery, picked through Blossom’s cow pies with a trowel, hoping to uncover my wedding ring. I did this twice a day. Nada. I even prayed to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost objects.
But I always do what Ginnie tells me. (Hardy har har.) I bit the bullet, rented the metal detector again, and gave it one more try. I wouldn’t pray this time. It would either be there or it wouldn’t.
Blossom was quite curious as to what I was doing. She came up behind me and nibbled at my shirt tail, wanting attention.
The metal detector beeped. I grew hopeful and started digging with the trowel. The detector indicated the object was six inches deep. There was no way a ring was going to be embedded that deep. But I had to check it out. Digging a hole six inches deep in a dried up, tramped down, cow pen with a trowel isn’t easy. Blossom tried to suck on my elbow. I was sweating bullets. My trowel stuck something. My heart skipped a beat. I dug harder. A small chunk of pop-can aluminum appeared.
I continued the search. This was ridiculous. What a waste of time! I could be mowing, picking tomatoes, updating my website, any one of a dozen jobs that needed to be done other than this. I might as well just call the jeweler and order another white gold wedding band and be done with it. Five-hundred dollars ain’t nothing to sneeze at, but it is what it is.
One veterinarian told me that I should have Blossom X-rayed to find out where the ring is, then have it surgically removed. Yeah, right. What would a surgery cost compared to the price of a ring? But there was the sentimental value to consider. After all, the ring is a symbol of Ginnie’s and my love. I considered holding the metal detector up to Blossom, but she wouldn’t hold still. She gave me a little nudge in the rear. I shooed her away.
The metal detector beeped again. Great. What is it this time? Another pop can, a screw? The detector indicated the object was two inches deep. That’s not quite so bad. I dug. Nothing. I put the detector over the hole and it beeped again. I continued to dig. Blossom mooed in my ear splattering slobber all over me. “Get out of here, Blossom!”
Tick. My trowel struck something. I pried up. Bingo! The ring flipped into view. I couldn’t believe it. There it was, dirty, like it had been through...what?...a cow? Yep! Dirt, crud and all, I put the ring on. My long lost friend had returned. My finger felt so much better. Our marriage was saved.
I took a picture of my hand with ring on and text it to Ginnie at work. She replied immediately. “Told ya! Now what am I going to get you for your birthday?”
Never, ever doubt your wife!
I checked our Scripture reading for the day. “God works wonders! We are blessed!”