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Maybe it’s the colorful psychedelic-painted steam locomotive, where balls that miss the tunnel underneath ricochet off the cowcatcher with a satisfying clang.

With each new handoff, he lowers his shoulders and steams ahead, face mask jutting out like a cowcatcher, yards piling up all the while.

A train comes, black and sooty, with a “triangular snout of the cowcatcher” and a single ragged boxcar.

Though her voice is powerful, and powerfully amplified, it is like a cowcatcher, pushing everything out of its way as it chugs down the tracks.

The locomotive was black, an ungainly contraption led by the triangular snout of the cowcatcher, though there would be few animals where this engine was headed.