A: Love the blog!
M: Me too!
A: I don't have enough time!
M: Me too!
A: Maybe we should set up a schedule?
M: Yes, please!
A: How'd you like my cowcast?
M: What the heck is a cowcast?
A: A post about cows, more or less. You like cows. You should try it.
M: I think I will.
And then there was something about cow appreciation month.
It is true. I like cows. But unlike A, I have, sadly, never closely worked with them except in three distinct instances.
Numero uno involves the aforementioned cousin
Numero dos involves my family's experience in raising three
But it is numero tres that provides every reason I have for liking cows. As far back as my family tree goes, that is how many generations I am a farmer's daughter. It's in my blood and every one of my limited opportunities shows my natural affinity for it. My dad would ditch his office job in a second and farm if he thought we wouldn't starve.
And every summer I go home to place where shepherds and cattleman graze their animals and halloo across some of the highest valleys in the state. They tip their hats and say that their pretty girl is back. My first memory of them is being plucked up by Sam and plopped in front on the back of his white cob, Comer. Comer is older than I am. So is Sam, by four. They carried me across a swollen stream. I was five and wandering: at home, alone, and utterly safe. We talk grass and coming winter and then we give the backwoods salute, part the cows like Moses did the
I like cows. I pity me too.