“You guys are making my day,” Dave Lovas said as his cattle followed my teammate around.

We first met him at the United Methodist Church, which serves as a focal point for Cassoday, Kan. residents. We had explained to the pastor that we intended to connect with the community and get their perspective on the historic town.

It wasn’t easy, of course. While the townspeople seemed amiable, they appeared reluctant to trust us city boys right away. They shook our hand, greeted us respectfully and went on to address other people.

Lovas had previously tapped me on the shoulder and demanded that I stand up while they chanted, thus we got off to a rocky start. Nevertheless, as soon as the service ended, he came right up to us as he sported his trademark ear-to-ear smile.

“If you ever need my help, I live near the tallest tower in Cassoday,” he said. “I’m always just standing there by my mule.”

While we subsequently obtained further contacts, his name remained at the top of our list. When we headed back to the town a few days later, we found it challenging to locate Lovas’ house.

What exactly did he mean by “the tallest tower in Cassoday”? Had he employed figurative speech?

After asking around, we learned our potential interviewee’s whereabouts. His house stood by a somewhat concealed corner, and it marveled us as soon as we caught a glimpse — a spacious porch decorated the visage of this vast residence. We got out of my teammate Cole’s car. Five dogs barked and ran toward us.

As they acknowledged our party, they guided us toward a white shed. Lovas appeared out of thin air as he welcomed us into his workshop. It became instantly clear that our recent acquaintance didn’t have the faintest idea of what we intended to do or what organization we belonged to. He merely wanted to help out — such is the selfless nature of Dave Lovas.

A former Air Force Member, he requested a transfer from northern Minnesota to Kansas in 1979, and fell in love thereafter with the tranquility surrounding the town.

“I can go to town anytime — in fact, I’ve already been to Wichita this morning,” Lovas said. “And I almost get anxiety so I can get back quicker.”

Lovas consequently explained his acquired fondness for the area came from the long-gone liberty of driving in the pastures from Cassoday to Eureka without worries, and the sense of unconditional freedom this lifestyle encompasses.

“Everything was yours, and everything was theirs — if I had something missing, I just thought so-and-so had it,” he said. “I want Cassoday to stay strong, but I don’t want it to grow.”

Despite owning a fair amount of cattle, Lovas merely considers himself an aspiring rancher in comparison to some of his friends and neighbors, especially Carl Grunder.

“I can’t match up to them — they’re the true American cowboys, and I’m just a wannabe,” he said. “But I’m so happy with what I’ve got anyway, because I’ve got them as friends. I don’t have to be like them, and they don’t wanna be like me.”

The interview came to a close. We shook hands, thanked him for his time and drove to the United Methodist Church, where our next interviewee awaited us.

Immediately after parking nearby, Lovas came right up to us on his Kawasaki Mule. Not long after we’d left, he had realized we could get great shots of his cattle if he drove us around his land. Naturally, we took him up on his offer and agreed to meet him there an hour later.

Back at Lovas’ extensive home, following our previous interview, Cole and I climbed on the back of the Kawasaki Mule, while our teammate Krisi rode shotgun.

As the vehicle dashed across the pasture, about 15 head of cattle scurried behind us, followed by the five dogs that received us earlier.

“You can shake the bucket,” Lovas said. A red container sat right behind me. As I jiggled it, the cattle sped up their pace, trotting behind us with the will — albeit not the speed — of wild mustangs. Cole got off the Mule unexpectedly and drifted toward a tree close by in order to get additional shots.

The cattle turned around and came after him. They stood right in front of the camera, as if posing for a photo shoot.

Lovas had to stop the truck. He failed to contain his laughter — he’d never witnessed his cattle stop and follow anyone but himself.

Even though a few weeks have passed since the incident took place, I still reminisce about that particular instant in which the fascinated cattle stared at a puzzled Cole as our host roared with laughter. Lovas didn’t mock or ridicule our teammate — he found genuine interest in the occurrence.

As we left his home, he wished us well with the project and promised to introduce us to several Cassoday residents worth interviewing, as if he hadn’t just supplied us with a terrific, rewarding experience.

“What a way to retire!,” he said as we drove off.