Llewd and Purley decided to bust out a couple of weeks ago while we were up at the pond, drinking with the mules. We thought they might have gone in search of greener pastures, since ours have been obliterated by the drought. After a couple of days of searching for them in their usual haunts, we gave up and posted flyers out on all the stop signs and at the beer stores. We got a call pretty quickly from a guy who’d seen their tracks at the entrance to a five hundred acre lot just down the road from us. They were there, with approximately seventy five large cows, mostly black Angus, with a few white-faced Aberdeens and Charolais in the mix. Purley is a stumpy boy, a sad case whose dick drags the ground, and he was obviously having difficulties hitting anything. Llewd was living out the fever dreams of adolescent boys, but with cows. Llewd was living out the fever dreams of boys from South Carolina? When we took them a bucket of sweet feed to see if we’d be able to coax them into a trailer, they remembered us in a kind of distracted way. They knew that at one point food had some significance in their lives, but it had faded in importance.
Among the great females, however, we made many instant friends, especially with those who’d probably never encountered molasses before.
Subsequent visits chummed them up for Llewd and his twisted son to do their absolute worst.
They’re back home now, after an epic week which required us to retrofit our truck with a tow bar and rent a livestock trailer. I’ve sat in a lot of automotive waiting rooms over the past several days watching the judge shows.
I now believe they air these to prepare the elderly for death.

Advertisements