Well I shut off my milk because I was afraid my chandelier might start looking too good and I did NOT want to go to the fair. I just shut it off like a faucet.
Betty's kids went to their new homes and Betty made the mistake of filling up with milk which made her udder look really beautiful.
The farmer started milking her which Betty didn't like at first. But Betty is naturally agreeable and after a couple of days she could see the upside - free lunch twice a day, followed by a licorice whip - so she quit fussing because that wasted valuable time when she could have had her head in the dish stuffing herself.
I told her Betty, I said, you better watch yourself or you will wind up at Puyallup in September. You will be in a tiny little pen and people will be staring at you like before and they will ask, "how old is this little lamb?"
"Is this one of those alpacas?" they will say.
"Can I pet it?" they will ask, looming over you like dirigibles and reeking of hot dogs and sunscreen.
"Would you mind selling me this goat?" they will inquire. "I live in an apartment but I take long walks every day."
"Why is it standing in the back of the pen," they will complain, "my little boy wants to pull its ears."
Mmm, said Betty.
Betty! I said.
Mmm, said Betty. I could see she was thinking about my helpful comments.
But I could see also that she was thinking about the beautiful stacks of free alfalfa at the Fair. The beautiful dairy alfalfa. No stems in it. Just beautiful leaves from the Columbia Basin. And also the scone crumbs in the morning before the public comes, the sleepy mornings in the barn with goats from all over to look at. And the orchard grass on the side. And the beautiful alfalfa, piled up as far as the eye can see, better than the best wedding cake in the world.
"Betty!" I yelled. "SHUT OFF YOUR MILK! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"