“Go ahead, you can pet her. It’s okay.”
Little Britches eyed his father suspiciously, even at the ripe old age of two; he’d mastered the art of discernment.
Little Britches’ father was his hero. Still, he wasn’t totally convinced that petting that little bunting cow at the edge of the deck sniffing lilacs was in his best interest. Heck, the cows buddy, a young golden lab, knocked him over in exuberant body wriggling, tail wagging licking episodes – and, that farm dog wasn’t as big as the mini black cow with the white face they called Mable!
Little Britches shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his jeans and shifted his weight from one rubber boot to the other, his bright inquiring eyes peering up at his father from below his Blue Jays ball cap. He needed a tidbit more encouragement before attempting, “Mission: touch-the-cow!” (more…)
The Trefoil Muse 