I go out to help move calves from stall to stall after some barn cleaning, and to match their mothers with them for the night.

I’m inside the barn and, in an adjacent roofed section, Loverboy is yelling back and forth with Pa, who is outside in the corral herding the cows toward the door.

They go by the number of the tag on an ear, so Pa yells “Ten!” to Loverboy, and he yells “Second-last stall!” to me, then comes in and says “When we say the one with the big tits, we mean the cow, not you!” and grins. I chuckle and shake my head.

A little later, we’ve got half the cows in and Pa yells from outside “the one with the big bag!” and Loverboy looks at me and says “He doesn’t want to say ‘tits’ when you’re in the barn.”

****

While the shit was being bulldozed out of the barn, I could have picked up a pitchfork and lent a hand. That is, if I was someone else. Our Kate here, she is not about to shovel any shit. I kept my scarf up over my mouth and nose.

Those are big goddamn animals. I was nervous in there. I like them well enough, but on the other side of a fence.