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When I see cows in a field as we’re driving in the country? I’m compelled to announce it.
“Cow!”
But when I’m walking around the Fryeburg fair surrounded by bodacious bovines?
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I just sigh with adoration.
My husband was raised on a dairy farm and the man knows cows. Which is why I think it’s cruel he won’t let me have one.. or ten. Of course I don’t want to muck out stalls or water them when it’s 10 below, which could be a deciding factor in his refusal.
So I get my cow fix when we go to fairs. I love the Belted Galloways which we always call Oreo cows.
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The one in the middle is clearly a double stuff.
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And look, there’s a vanilla cream.
While I was adoring?
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The husband was talking.
And talking.
And talking.
About cows.
And after 20 minutes, about politics. Which is odd because I don’t think cows vote.
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Did you know a cow isn’t technically a cow until she has a calf?
Now you do.
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Can I get an awwww?
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Scottish Highlands are so fuzzy I just want to curl up with a few and stroke them for hours.
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This little beauty was only three days old! Momma delivered at the fair.
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There’s the husband, talking cows again.
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Did you know your veal parmigiana is almost always male?
Now you do.
And because no fair visit is complete without a beauty pageant.
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Cow!
🐄
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River's world..... 