I go outside to feed Mr. Shy, only to find the ENTIRE pasture covered in manure. He is sitting huddled in the smashed remnants of our barn (the roof caved in over the winter), refusing to come out. He says apparently some other cows, city cows, came out to mark their turf, and started having gang wars with each other in the backyard. He tried to get them to settle it rationally, but they wouldn't. So, he had to call up his friends who own a satellite and get them to call some of their friends who happen to have connections with a guy who knows...and, here, his voice hushes with a snort: "ALIENS."
"I know, it was a cruel thing to do," he says, "But I couldn't just let them destroy the field. I had to do something...then I had to hide under here, lessen' they mistook me for one of them troublemakers. Come to think of it, I don't think these particular aliens're all that discriminatory about who they take..."
Thankfully, though, he has it all worked out. He has been fashioning a tin-foil body suit, so they can't pick up his uniquely cowish signature.
"That's great," I mumble, stumbling away. I didn't even know he could talk...
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