bigger than Lance, almost as big as a car, with huge brown, anxious, motherly eyes.
So Lance loved her dearly. He always would.
But she was only a cow. Cows weren’t exotic. They weren’t different. And they didn’t promise adventure. You couldn’t go righting wrongs, killing dragons, rescuing damsels in distress with a cow.
Let’s face it, cows aren’t even very bright.
Oh, Lance could still tell all his troubles to Flossie. She was still perfect for that. But it would be foolish to expect any more.
He took the shortcut home across the meadow, jumping the big brown cowpats and singing the song his friends always sang when somebody carelessly put their foot in one.
Which would you rather?
Run a mile,
Jump a stile,
Or eat a country pancake?
He wasn’t daft. Though he was hungry now, and ready for tea, he’d run the mile or jump the stile!
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