I am now down in the cabana pasture with the other Nigerians and all the minis except Peaches and Mabel.
Fancy pants Lucy and little brown-nose Joy were bragging about how they are staying up at the big barn with the milkers. Even Peaches, who is way down at the bottom of the pecking order, with only her own twin sister Mabel to boss around, was acting snooty.
Big deal, I said to myself.
Then came what I thought was the final indignity: Bertie the half-wit dry yearling was ushered up to the big barn, because she is going to be one of the milkers in the spring.
This left me and Hannah Belle and Breezy and Jammies and Tubster (what is her real name, anyway?) and Billie and Willa stewing in our own juices. We assumed the service would be very poor down where we were, and the big fancy milkers would get all the good food, and alfalfa instead of grass hay, and lots of cosseting that they don't need, being horribly conceited already not to mention fat.
But no: the food is pretty good down here, and so far a reasonable amount of it, even some halfway decent alfalfa.
But still the milkers were acting supercilious, because they had heard that they were going to get some special treatment. Well, a couple of days went by and someone pulled up in a little white car and got out and started putting a coverall on out of the trunk, and I said to myself, wait a minute.
Wait just a minute, I said, there is only one reason for a person to arrive and put a green coverall over their clothes, and that reason is that the person is a veterinarian. Ha!
Pretty soon the milkers got their special treatment - shots in the ass and needles in their necks to take blood samples.
I tried not to laugh. But not very hard.