All evening I have felt the tension going out of me like the air out of a punctured tire; we have decided to take Sweetheart, a misnomer if ever there was one, to market in the morning. Hallelujah and glory be. That black-and-white besom has nearly kicked the snot out of me a hundred times, and better to get a check for her than to make copays because she puts me in the hospital. Anything on four legs that eats grass is bringing good money right now, and maybe someone with a surge milker can use a fifty-pounds-a-day second calf heifer who is just too unpredictable for someone sitting next to her back right leg on an upturned bucket.
Enough is enough.
I feel terrific.