Sour Milk

-A tale of a depressed cow

The Author's Note (we love these, don't we?): Ok, this might be a short story; it might be a co-written novel length story. It all depends on..*cough* YoshinoTwins to continue this piece.. just review it even if it isn't the best thing I've ever written.

My life is a soap opera.

No really, it is.

Ok, so maybe it's a cheese opera. Soap doesn't really agree with me.

See – I'm a cow, name of Hildegarde. Now before you start chuckling at my sadly generated name, let me explain. A long time ago (now I'm not telling you exactly how long ago), when I was a very small calf, I was known as the Cow #26. Yes, labeled just with a mere number, I am sorry to say. Then, when I grew into my strong sturdy frame, I was dubbed the Chief Milk Giver. Yes, quite an honorable title, but when those humans further named me this disgraceful name, Hildegarde, shortened to 'ol Hildy, well, that was just pushing it.

Wait – it gets worse. The horrid creatures took me to these revolting pastures where I was allotted to "graze." It's grass, for goodness sake! How do you expect me to live on those tiny green dried clippings? It's so very bland, with absolutely no taste, just like chewing your own tail. But yes, unfortunately I have to suffer through this taste for the rest of my life.

Then what do they do? They decide to herd me to a cramped stable and lock me inside. Next day a sweet little maiden timidly comes to visit. She takes up a stool, places it next to me; I'm thinking she wants to tell me a story or something. But nooo…that's not what happens is it? Nobody cares about 'ol Hildy, do they?

All right, she sits down. All of a sudden she grabs my UDDERS, yes, my UDDERS, and starts squeezing them. Has she no dignity? The girl begins in a pattern: plop, squish, plop, squish, depleting me entirely of my milk supply. Now what am I supposed to wash down my diet of grass with? According to the humans, I must resort to this filthy stuff known as water. But those swaggering imbeciles really don't care about that, do they? Nooo…they don't mind if a poor old cow loses her milk, they just put that milk into little plastic cartons for even more humans to drink and pour down the sink. And do the cows ever get credit? Do they? Do they?

What about the cheese? Yeah, the cheese. Huh, huh, huh? That creamy yellow stuff that all humans seem to eat and torture animals with. You know, to put into tacos and quesadillas and whatnot? Do they ever think for one second: "I'm going to give some of this delightful Velveeta to the cow that produced it."? Do they? Do they?

When the humans decide to treat the animals with some cheese, is it the cow that receives it? No, it isn't. It's given to the slobbering miserable pig. Dumb animal. Doesn't even know when it's being given a treasure; it just grunts and throws it away. If I had that cheese, I'd know what I'd do with it…

And another thing. Not only do they take all our milk, but also when we can't make milk anymore (and whose fault was that in the first place?), they SLAUGHTER us. I see those cocky beasts strutting around eating a piece of beef jerky. This abomination makes my blood boil.

Thus forth my daily routine. Indeed a cheese opera, so to speak.

Once, I tried to stop this abhorred schedule. I held my milk back. But does it work? Well, it did at first. The milkmaid, so frustrated, she rushes to tell the farmer, and the farmer sends someone over. Probably some hit man to threaten me to give milk. Huh, so much for that brilliant plan.

But the "hit man" who responded to the farmer's call was certainly a surprise. Let me tell you, I don't particularly specialize in human physiognomy, but this man, well, this man was HOT. Flaming, burning HOT. I sat there, drooling, at that wonderfully red-faced, bovine, godlike creature. He kneels down *gasp* he wants to make a proposal! (as I admit I am a striking cow) Lying down now, he in turn grabs my udders and pulls. Oh my, it was a pain I never before felt! All of my milk comes tumbling into the bucket, the whole lot of it.

That sexy man pats me on the back. "Good job, old girl. I see you've still got some spunk in you. Now let's hear you moo, what about it, Hilde?"

Moo.

Ok, I hoped you liked it. I really have to work on my onomatopoeias. (yes I successfully spelled that correctly =D)