The Zen of the Baize: A Highland Cow's Journey Through Mindfulness and Pool

Betty The Buddhist Cow Teaches Pool

Betty’s arrival in Bradford was nothing short of a spectacle. A Highland cow, with a shaggy auburn coat that hung over her eyes like curtains drawn in a forgotten theatre, wandering into the gritty streets of a city famed for its curries and no-nonsense attitude. The cobbled streets, which wound through the heart of a once-thriving industrial quarter, echoed with the sounds of pub chatter, taxi cabs, and the occasional clink of a snooker cue against a well-worn ball. Betty had ventured far from her native Highlands, where the air was sharp and the hills were endless, to this land of terraces and tower blocks. But, like any seasoned traveller, she adapted.

She found herself, as she often did when faced with the unexpected, in a state of mindful observation. The key to survival, as the Buddha might have told her, was not in resisting the new, but in embracing it as it unfolded—no judgment, just presence.

Betty’s adventure began, oddly enough, when she wandered into *The Red Triangle*, a snooker hall on a particularly rain-drenched Tuesday evening. It was a dingy, dim-lit sanctuary of clinking pint glasses and the low hum of a jukebox eternally stuck on ‘80s hits. The regulars didn’t take much notice of her at first, their eyes more often glued to the hypnotic movement of balls across the green baize.

Her hooves clattered on the linoleum floor as she entered, drawing a slow, curious glance from behind the bar. Terry, a bulldog of a man with arms like tree trunks, narrowed his eyes. He’d seen a lot in Bradford, but never a Highland cow with an apparent interest in snooker.

“Ey up, love, you lost?” Terry’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. He was the gatekeeper of *The Red Triangle*, the man who knew how to silence a room with a glance, but tonight, his gruff exterior was softened, bemused by the creature standing before him.

Betty simply blinked, her long lashes fluttering, a gentle expression of curiosity. Mindfully, she approached the nearest table. The players—Alan, a retired mechanic with a gut the size of a small tractor tyre, and Jimmy, who wore a leather jacket even when it was 28 degrees in the shade—watched with raised eyebrows as she, without so much as a bellow, inspected the table.

“Now then,” Alan murmured, “this cow’s got better manners than you, Jim.”

Jimmy shrugged, clearly nonplussed. “Let her have a go, then. She can’t be worse than you.”

It was then that Betty, her mind steeped in the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh, knew that this was her moment to teach by example. With a deep breath, she centred herself. The noise of the pub, the smell of beer-soaked carpets and burnt chips, all of it faded into the background. In the quiet spaces between her breaths, she became one with the table.

The game of pool was not unlike life. Each ball was a moment, and the cue was the intention one placed into that moment. To hit with force but without mindfulness would scatter the balls, create chaos. But to strike with focus, to flow with the movements of breath and body, was to align oneself with the harmony of existence itself. She lined up a shot, her hoof delicately placed on the edge of the cue, which Terry—now watching in disbelief—had passed her.

There was a hush in the room, the kind of silence that stretches itself thin and taut across the expectation of something extraordinary. With a measured, deliberate movement, Betty sent the white cue ball gliding. It struck the intended ball—solid, determined—and with a graceful clunk, the ball dropped into the pocket.

Alan whistled low. “That’s summat, that is.”

Betty didn’t gloat. She simply turned her large, soulful eyes toward Alan and Jimmy, giving a soft, contemplative nod. It wasn’t about the win; it was about the practice, the attention to the present moment. Her Buddhist philosophy had prepared her well for this.

Over the next few weeks, Betty became a regular fixture at *The Red Triangle*. She never spoke, of course, but her presence became something of a legend. The locals dubbed her "The Zen Bull of Bradford," and she began to teach—though not in the way one might expect. She never held court, never lectured. Instead, she taught through action, through the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way she approached each shot with precision and care, her mind never distracted by the clatter of bar stools or the banter of the other players.

Her most loyal student was, unsurprisingly, Terry. A man who had once thought that life was a series of battles to be fought with fists and fury, he found himself strangely drawn to the tranquility of Betty’s movements. He noticed, for the first time in years, how the weight of his cue felt in his hands, how the wood was smooth and worn from countless games, but still had a certain integrity, a story in every scratch and dent.

Under Betty’s silent tutelage, Terry learned that pool wasn’t about overpowering the game, but about becoming part of it, understanding the flow of the balls and the angles, yes, but more importantly, learning to quiet the mind. The more he embraced this mindfulness, the more the other parts of his life began to fall into place. He stopped shouting at the football scores on the telly. He even found himself taking slower, more deliberate walks to work, noticing things he hadn’t before—the way the sunlight hit the cobblestones, the quiet hum of the early morning city.

One night, after Betty sank the eight ball with her usual grace, Terry stood at the bar, pint in hand, and said to no one in particular, “Y’know, I reckon that cow’s taught me more about life than any bloke ever could.”

And that was the thing about Betty. She wasn’t just a pool-playing cow. She was a symbol, a reminder that even in the rough, tumble streets of Bradford, there was space for mindfulness, for peace. And in the clattering of balls, the echo of pub chatter, and the slow rise of cigarette smoke, you could find moments of stillness if you were willing to look for them.

Betty, of course, never took credit. She simply observed, nodded gently, and continued to play, quietly guiding the hands of those who were ready to learn, one pocket at a time.