Metro President David Bragdon sent this along last week: An essay on his short stint as a mascot (of sorts), in response to our mascot issue.

I had been told I could be the otter. But when I reported for duty—I’d probably been delayed at my office by litigation about the Urban Growth Boundary, or a meeting about the budget for the Sellwood Bridge replacement—the otter suit was already taken. The mountain goat had also been assigned, and Lulu Lemer and Honey the Bear were checked out.

There was only one suit left, hanging limply on the rack: A pied pelt and a fixed, bovine leer. The volunteer coordinator told me, “You’ll have to be the cow.”

“Just, ‘the’ cow?” I asked. “It’s ‘Ozzie’ the otter and ‘Rocky’ the mountain goat—what’s the cow’s first name?”

Apparently the question had never come up. “It’s just called ‘the cow,’” he said.

Check out what happens to Bragdon in a cow suit after the cut. It’s in caps—it was a piece meant to be read aloud—and it’s hilarious.

Moolights

I HAD BEEN TOLD I COULD BE THE OTTER. BUT WHEN I REPORTED FOR DUTY – I’D PROBABLY BEEN DELAYED AT MY OFFICE BY LITIGATION ABOUT THE URBAN GROWTH BOUNDARY, OR A MEETING ABOUT THE BUDGET FOR THE SELLWOOD BRIDGE REPLACEMENT -- THE OTTER SUIT WAS ALREADY TAKEN. THE MOUNTAIN GOAT HAD ALSO BEEN ASSIGNED, AND LULU LEMUR AND HONEY THE BEAR WERE CHECKED OUT.

THERE WAS ONLY ONE SUIT LEFT, HANGING LIMPLY ON THE RACK: A PIED PELT AND A FIXED, BOVINE LEER. THE VOLUNTEER COORDINATOR TOLD ME, “YOU’LL HAVE TO BE THE COW.”

“JUST, ‘THE’ COW?” I ASKED, “IT’S ‘OZZIE’ THE OTTER AND ‘ROCKY’ THE MOUNTAIN GOAT – WHAT’S THE COW’S FIRST NAME?”

APPARENTLY THE QUESTION HAD NEVER COME UP. “IT’S JUST CALLED ‘THE COW,’” HE SAID.

AN ELF SEALED ME INTO THE SUIT, WITH VELCRO STRAPS. I JOINED THE OTHER MASCOTS, ALL OF US STILL HEADLESS, FOR OUR RITUAL PRE-EVENT MEAL: LASAGNA, AND WHITE SHEET CAKE WITH GREEN FROSTING, WASHED DOWN WITH TROPICAL FRUIT PUNCH. THEN, THE VOLUNTEER COORDINATOR SUMMONED US TO OUR BRIEFING. IT WAS ZOOLIGHTS, THE ANNUAL DECEMBER FESTIVAL WHEN THE ZOO IS OPEN AT NIGHT, FESTOONED WITH STRINGS OF LIGHTS.

“THERE ARE THREE RULES FOR YOU BIG ANIMALS,” THE VOLUNTEER COORDINATOR ADMONISHED US.

“ONE, ONCE YOU GO OUT WHERE THE KIDS ARE, KEEP YOUR HEADS ON. NEVER TAKE YOUR HEAD OFF WHERE CHILDREN CAN SEE YOU -- IT FREAKS THEM OUT.”

“RULE TWO, DON’T TALK. NOW, DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU DON’T TALK?” WITH AN ANNOYING MIXTURE OF AUTHORITY AND CHEERLEADING, HE EXPLAINED: “YOU DON’T TALK….BECAUSE….ANIMALS DON’T TALK!”

“RULE THREE: KEEP SMILING, ALL THE TIME.”

I WAS PUZZLED BY THAT RULE. I HAD SIGNED UP FOR THIS GIG BECAUSE FOR AT LEAST THREE HOURS OF MY LIFE, I WOULDN’T HAVE TO SMILE: ALL PEOPLE WOULD SEE WAS THE PERMANENT GRIN PAINTED ON THE BIG CARDBOARD-AND-FUR FACE.

“NOBODY CAN SEE WHETHER I’M SMILING IN THERE,” I POINTED OUT. THE VOLUNTEER BOSS DISAGREED: “MAYBE SO,” HE ADMITTED, “BUT IF YOU’RE SMILING INSIDE, THE POSITIVE ENERGY COMES THROUGH THE SUIT!”

I SULLENLY PUT MY COW-HEAD ON, AND SHUFFLED TOWARD THE DOOR, LED BY MY ELF.

EACH OF US BIG ANIMALS HAD BEEN ASSIGNED A HELPER ELF, SO THAT WE COULD AVOID TRAMPLING THE CHILDREN UNSEEN BENEATH OUR SNOUTS. MY ELF WAS A LONG-TIME ZOO ADMINISTRATOR WHO, IN ALL HIS YEARS OF EMPLOYMENT, SUSPICIOUSLY, HAD NEVER BEEN AN ELF BEFORE. LIKE THE COLD WAR DIPLOMAT IN MOSCOW WHO KNEW HIS SOVIET MAID WAS ACTUALLY A KGB OPERATIVE, I SUSPECTED I HAD BEEN ASSIGNED A “SPECIAL” ELF, FORCIBLY RECRUITED FROM THE RANKS OF ZOO SENIOR MANAGEMENT TO KEEP AN EYE ON ME. “WE’LL BE WORKING TIGER PLAZA,” HE TOLD ME GRIMLY.

MY ELF LED ME OUTSIDE. SUDDENLY, IT WAS AS IF A MOVIE HAD STARTED, PROJECTED ON TO THE BACK OF THE MESH OF MY BIG STARING EYEBALLS. I WAS WATCHING THE MOVIE, BUT I WAS IN IT TOO. I WAS BOTH THE CAMERA AND THE STAR -- I LOVED IT.

WE WERE SURROUNDED BY CHILDREN, PARENTS’ FLASHBULBS POPPING AS THE KIDDIES POSED WITH ME. MY ELF WENT INTO A BARITONE PATTER: "COME HUG THE COW, IT'S A MOOO-VING EXPERIENCE, UDDERLY FANTASTIC, MOO-EY CHRISTMAS!" HE LED ME ALONG THE LINE OF PEOPLE WAITING FOR THE ZOOLINER TRAIN, AND I WAVED AND SHOOK HANDS. I FELT TODDLERS ATTACH THEMSELVES TO MY LEGS. I WAS SWEATING BUCKETS IMMEDIATELY, AND COULD BARELY SEE, BUT I WAS THRILLED.

THE ZOO WAS HAVING A NEAR-RECORD NIGHT: OVER 8,000 PEOPLE JAMMING THE WALKWAYS, CLAMORING FOR COCOA, GAWKING AT THE LIGHTS. IT SEEMED LIKE 7,989 OF THOSE 8,000 PEOPLE WERE SEVEN YEARS OLD, AND THEY WERE ALL NAMED ASHLEY, JUSTIN, TAYLOR, OR BRITTNEY.

MOST WAVED AT ME AND RAN OVER FOR A HUG, THOUGH A FEW WANTED TO PULL MY TAIL OR SLUG ME TOO. I’D FEEL THE LITTLE FISTS THUD AGAINST MY THIGHS, AND IN THE MUFFLED ENVIRONMENT OF THE COW-HEAD, THICK WITH THE HUMIDITY OF MY OWN SWEAT, I’D HEAR THE MOMS YELL: “JUSTIN! DON’T HIT THE COW! IT’S A NICE COW!” OR: “ASHLEY! ASHLEY! DON’T PULL THE TAIL! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S BEEN TOUCHING!”

ALL THIS INDISCRIMINATE PHYSICAL CONTACT MADE ME BOTH HAPPY AND NERVOUS. PARENTS WERE SENDING THEIR KIDS TO HUG ME BECAUSE I WAS WEARING THIS COSTUME, BUT THEY NEVER WOULD HAVE ENCOURAGED THEIR KIDS TO HUG A MIDDLE-AGED ELECTED OFFICIAL. I ALMOST FELT LIKE SCOLDING THE MOMS AND DADS: “YOU SHOULDN'T BE LETTING YOUR KIDS HUG SOMEONE JUST BECAUSE HE’S DRESSED UP LIKE A COW! I COULD BE A POLITICIAN IN HERE! FOR ALL YOU KNOW, I COULD BE DICK CHENEY!”

BUT INSTEAD I OBEYED RULE TWO: MAINTAIN SILENCE; KEEP WAVING.

I ALSO OBEYED RULE ONE: KEEP HEAD ON. SOMETIMES, AS SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN MY NOSE OR I NEEDED TO SNEEZE, I ALMOST YANKED IT OFF, BUT I DIDN’T WANT TO START A STAMPEDE OF FREAKED-OUT JUSTINS, ASHLEYS, TAYLORS, AND BRITTNEYS. I WAITED FOR THE HOURLY BREAKS, WHEN, SITTING HEADLESS IN THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, I HAD A CRAVING I HAD NEVER HAD BEFORE: THE URGE TO TAKE MY HOOVES OFF AND SMOKE A CIGARETTE.

BY THE THIRD HOUR, I WAS COVERTLY VIOLATING RULE THREE: SMILE CONTINUOUSLY INSIDE THE BIG GOOFY HEAD. MY ELF KEPT DRONING HIS LITANY OF COW PUNS. I NEEDED MY ELF, BUT I ALSO WANTED TO SLUG HIM AFTER I HEARD HIS PATTER THE THOUSANDTH TIME.

POOR ELF: HE WAS GETTING HECKLED A LITTLE BIT ANYWAY. OVER SIX FEET TALL, NEARING RETIREMENT, AND BALDING, HE QUALIFIED AS AN ELF ONLY IN A CITY THAT QUOTE HONORS DIVERSITY UNQUOTE. YET SEVERAL CULTURALLY INSENSITIVE ADULTS HAD TAKEN IT UPON THEMSELVES TO INFORM HIM THAT HE WAS EITHER TOO OLD OR TOO TALL TO BE AN ELF. “WHATTAYA MEAN,” I’D HEAR HIM SNAP, “I JUST LOOK OLD CAUSE WE’RE WORKING HARD MAKING TOYS UP AT THE NORTH POLE.” THEN HE’D RESUME HIS CHANT, “COME HUG THE COW, IT’S UDDERLY FANTASTIC.”

PEOPLE RESPONDED WITH THE SAME JOKES, OVER AND OVER: "HOW NOW BROWN COW?" “DO YOU GIVE CHOCOLATE MILK?” AND THE TAUNT THAT KEPT MAKING ME WANT TO CROSS MY LEGS: “HEY, CAN I MILK YOU?”

IT WAS NEAR TIME FOR THE COW TO COME HOME. I WAS COVERED WITH SWEAT, HALF-BLIND, AND ACHING FROM ALL THE SQUATTING AND BENDING, BUT I WAS HAPPY. NEAR THE POPCORN STAND, ANOTHER LITTLE ASHLEY OR BRITTNEY STARTED WAILING AS HER FAMILY DRAGGED HER TOWARD THE ZOO EXIT, EVEN THOUGH SHE WANTED ONE LAST PICTURE WITH ME. THE CROWD WAS DWINDLING AS MY ELF LED ME SLOWLY AROUND ONE LAST CIRCUIT OF TIGER PLAZA.

AN OLDER MAN IN A BASEBALL CAP LOOMED INTO MY LIMITED RANGE OF VISION, STOPPING RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. HE POINTED AT MY LARGE PLASTIC NOSE, LEANED OVER, AND WHISPERED, "A COW IS NOT A ZOO ANIMAL. A COW IS A DOMESTIC AGRICULTURAL SPECIES." I NODDED SILENTLY, IN THE EXAGGERATED FASHION I HAD BEEN TAUGHT TO NOD, AND PUT MY HOOF ON HIS SHOULDER. AT LAST, I FELT KNOWN AND UNDERSTOOD, AS NEVER BEFORE. FINALLY, MY PUBLIC TRULY DID LOVE ME FOR WHAT I AM.