Speaking of which, my favorite parade participants were four of my neighbors who happened to be Ankole cattle -- two calves and their moms. They lived across the street in a small paddock. That's where they spent their nights anyway. Every morning, the local herdsmen would come collect the four and steer them to prime grazing land outside the village. Apparently, he provided this service -- like a Manhattan dog walker -- to several households. The foursome knew the drill: As soon as he let them out of their enclosure in the morning, they trotted cheerfully off to breakfast, herdsman running alongside. But dusk was when I set my watch by them. As I sat on the porch taking in the endlessly surprising procession, the two cows and two calves would come strolling down the road, single file, unaccompanied, knowing exactly where they were headed, always punctual, walk under the laundry line and between two adobe buildings, and through the gate of the paddock the four of them could just barely fit into -- to wait patiently as the moon rose and set, and the sun slipped up over the horizon and made it morning, so they could follow their herdsman and their happy routine one more time.