Connie Buvens and William Buvens, III v. Robert Landry and Tracie Landry

Let’s cut right to the chase: a bull — a full-grown, black, probably judgmental bull — just casually strolled into traffic on a public road in Canadian County, Oklahoma, and got hit by a car. And now, someone has to pay. Not the bull. The bull’s fine. Probably. But the humans? Oh, they’re suing the pants off each other. This isn’t Animal Kingdom — it’s Neighborhood Warfare: Livestock Edition.

Meet the Buvenses — Connie and William III, because nothing says “I’m ready for a lawsuit” like a Roman numeral. They’re your average Canadian County couple, just trying to get from point A to point B without becoming part of a viral TikTok titled “When Farm Life Meets Commute Life.” On April 19, 2025 — yes, this case was filed on the same day as the incident, which either means someone’s very organized or very angry — William was driving westbound on SW 44th Street, minding his business, Connie riding shotgun, probably judging the radio station. They weren’t speeding. They weren’t texting. They were, by all accounts in the petition, “driving in a careful and prudent manner.” Which, in legalese, means they were doing everything right. And then — BAM — out of nowhere, a black bull steps into the road like it’s auditioning for The Fast and the Furialest.

We don’t know if the bull charged. We don’t know if it was confused. We don’t even know if it made eye contact. But we do know it was not supposed to be there. According to the filing, the bull belonged to Robert and Tracie Landry, who live just down the road at 4500 Katelyn Lane — a property that, one assumes, comes with a fence. Or at least should come with a fence. But somewhere between the pasture and the pavement, things went sideways. The bull got loose. No restraint. No supervision. No “Hey, buddy, public roads aren’t part of the grazing plan.” Just a 1,500-pound bovine surprise in the middle of a public roadway, and the Buvenses had about as much time to react as a squirrel on a highway.

The car hit the bull. The bull hit the car. The car, presumably, did not enjoy this interaction. It sustained “significant damage,” which in car terms could mean anything from a dented bumper to a hood that now looks like modern art. The Buvenses, meanwhile, claim they suffered personal injuries. We don’t know if it’s whiplash, emotional trauma, or just the lingering fear that next time, it might be a goat with a grudge. But something happened. Enough to make them hop on the legal hamster wheel and file a lawsuit the same day. Which, again — either this attorney’s billing rate is astronomical, or someone really wanted to make a point before the bull did.

So why are we in court? Legally speaking, the Buvenses are throwing two claims at the Landrys: regular old negligence and something called negligence per se. Let’s break that down like we’re explaining it to a confused cow. First, negligence: the idea that the Landrys, as livestock owners, had a duty to keep their animals contained. That’s not exactly a radical concept. You don’t own a tiger and just say, “Eh, he’ll come back when he’s hungry.” Same with bulls. If you’ve got a farm animal, you’re supposed to keep it on the farm. Fences should be maintained. Gates should be closed. And if your bull develops a taste for suburban exploration, it’s on you to stop it. The Buvenses allege the Landrys failed on all fronts — bad fencing, no supervision, zero effort to keep Mr. Moo off the road. And because of that, a perfectly safe drive turned into a bovine collision.

Then comes the spicy legal garnish: negligence per se. This is where Oklahoma law steps in and says, “Actually, you don’t even need to debate whether someone was careless — the law already says you’re liable if your livestock is running loose.” Specifically, 4 O.S. § 98 — which sounds like a secret government code but is actually a state statute that makes livestock owners automatically responsible for damages when their animals are “at large” on public roads. So the Buvenses aren’t just saying, “Hey, you messed up.” They’re saying, “Hey, you broke the law, and the law says you pay when this happens.” It’s like getting a parking ticket, except instead of $30, it’s $75,000.

And yes — $75,000. That’s the number they’re asking for. Is that a lot for a car crash with a bull? Well, let’s think about it. If the car is totaled, that’s maybe $20K–$30K right there, depending on whether it was a 2003 Corolla or a lifted F-150 with a winch and a sound system that doubles as a seismic detector. Medical bills? Could add up. But $75,000 also includes pain and suffering, emotional distress, lost wages if they missed work, and possibly therapy for whenever they hear mooing near a road. It’s not crazy money in lawsuit terms — no mansions or private jets here — but it’s enough to make someone think twice before leaving the pasture gate open again.

Oh, and just to make things extra dramatic? The Buvenses want a jury trial. Which means, at some point, a group of Oklahoma locals will sit in a courtroom and decide whether the Landrys are responsible for letting their bull become a road hazard. Picture it: the attorney dramatically reenacts the moment, maybe with a prop. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury… this is the bull that changed everything.” It’s Law & Order meets Hee Haw.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this whole thing isn’t that a bull got loose. Oklahoma’s got farms. Animals escape. It happens. The absurdity lies in the sheer timing. A lawsuit filed on the same day as the accident? That’s not just legal efficiency — that’s premeditated outrage. Did William III hop out of the crumpled car, dust himself off, and immediately call his lawyer? “Yeah, Dakota? It’s me. I just hit a bull. No, I’m fine. But I think we have a case.” Or was this feud brewing long before April 19? Maybe the Landrys’ cows have been eyeing the Buvenses’ lawn for years. Maybe there was a dispute over fence lines, or one too many “cow crossing” jokes at a neighborhood BBQ. We’ll never know. But the speed of this filing smells less like justice and more like payback with extra hay.

Are we rooting for the Buvenses? Sure, if they’re actually hurt and their car’s a write-off. Nobody should have to dodge farm animals on public roads. But are we also a little bit charmed by the idea of a rogue bull just… living its best life? Absolutely. That bull didn’t ask to be sued. It probably just saw a really interesting mailbox and thought, “I’m going for it.” And honestly? We respect the hustle.

At the end of the day, this case isn’t really about a car crash. It’s about boundaries — literal and metaphorical. It’s about who’s responsible when rural life collides with the rules of the road. And it’s a reminder: if you own a bull, for the love of all that is holy, check your fence. Because in Oklahoma, apparently, one loose bovine can cost you $75,000 and a spot in the civil court circus. And the bull? It’ll probably be fine. It wasn’t even named in the suit.