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THE SMALL CLUSTER OF CALVES in the field up the road ran over to talk to me as I walked by yesterday evening. They didn't quite know how to say it, but I figured it was some sort of birthday greeting they wished to convey. I don't go around blabbing it to just anyone, but of course they've known it for quite some time--today marks my fifth anniversary as a cow. Oh, wait, wait...good grief...I meant to say part cow! I've been  part cow for five years now.

I'm sorry, you seem a little skeptical, Dear Reader. But it's true. (And that's no bull! I always tell the cows). It's been five years since that sweltering July day, when I stomped off to the grocery store and slugged home three gallon jugs of lemonade and a twenty-pound bag of ice, dragged them all into the house in one load, began shoveling ice into cups and pouring lemonade. I was irritated! Yes, indeedy...here it was, this exceedingly hot day, and The Yard Man was expecting a great crowd of foreign visitors to come and ooh and ahh about his horses. Oh, yes. He was quite enthused and eager. He had thirty chairs all set up out there in the yard; he would parade the horses for these guests to inspect; they would be eager, too, and interested. But. They. Would. Also. Be. Hot! And. They. Would. Be. Thirsty! (I had strongly opined to The Yard Man, who had shrugged his shoulders.)

I quietly jump to the part where I pour myself a drink, as I'm flinging ice into cups. I gulp down the cold lemonade, develop a very strange feeling in my chest, and (flurry of events and a few days later) find myself waking as a partial cow.


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(Okay, okay...so I left out a few details.
I'll fill you in later, if I feel so moooooved.)



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