Page 23 of Butter You Up
I trudge up the hill and into the barn. With the cows out in the field, it’s empty and quiet. I walk down the main aisle until I hear voices and follow the sound until I exit the barn out the far side. There’s a series of what looks like dog crates but much bigger, each one fenced in and containing a baby cow or two.
Holy hell, they are stinking cute. “Oh my god,” I coo at the nearest one, who ambles over to the metal barrier, ears flicking and huge brown eyes staring at me.
Dad always told me anything with a mouth can bite, so I don’t poke my finger in the cage to scratch it like I want to. The calf lips at the wire, and its little tail flicks, and I almost die of a cuteness overload.
I’m glad no one can see me as I babble at the animal. “Who’s a cutie? Oh my god, you are a cutie. Yes, such a widdle baby with your big ears and eyes, and oh my, what big eyelashes you have.”
I sound like a fairy tale villain. I make a few more kissy noises and straighten up. There are dozens of calves in these pens, each cuter than the last. Most pens even have two inside, and when I walk past, they compete for my attention, nudging each other and following me from one side to the other.
Dear god, it’s like a pet store. And somehow, the baby cows are even cuter than kittens or puppies. How did I not know this?
I wonder if any of them are going to be eaten, but I don’t think Udderly sells meat. I also remember Kit mentioning gendered sperm, so I wonder if these are all girl cows. Does Alex name them? I can understand not naming the cow who’s going to be on your plate, but these are “milkers” as I keep hearing them referred to, so do they get names?
I’m following the voices, lost in my thoughts, totally unprepared for what I see when I turn the corner.
CHAPTER14
ALEX
Perryand I are deep in conversation discussing colostrum and weaning that I don’t even notice Molly coming around the corner until she gasps.
Perry and I both jerk, and my heart rate spikes, worried that the gasp is in pain or fear, but when I get a look at Molly’s face, I relax. She’s fine, but stares at the baby goat in my arms, feeding from the bottle I’m holding.
“Afternoon, Molly,” Perry says.
She doesn’t answer but slowly, glacially, sinks to her knees. Perry starts forward, concern etched on his posture, but stops short, flummoxed.
Molly’s hands come up to her face, holding her cheeks as she gapes at me—well, at the kid. “What is happening? How can anything be that cute? I can’t take it! Cuteness overload. I’m melting.”
Perry laughs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening.
To be fair, I am immune to cuteness overload, having been around baby animals my whole life. But I like this response from Molly. Maybe I should hold and bottle-feed premature baby goats every day.
Nah, that’s a dumb idea. This is cuteness, not sexiness. Or does cuteness like this increase sexiness? I don’t know; maybe I’ll ask Kit.
To my alarm, tears are forming in Molly’s eyes. Oh no, she really can’t handle the cute.
“It’s so small,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
One hand holds the bottle, but I lightly stroke the kid's flank with my other hand. “Would you like to pet her?”
Molly is by my side in a flash. Her hands are still up on her face, though, and I notice she’s got a red, dry spot on the pinky side of her palm. “How should I pet it? Why is it so tiny?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Perry slip away. It’s just me and Molly out here in the kid pens, though I think she hasn’t even noticed that she’s literally surrounded by baby goats.
Molly’s close to me. Really close. I can see the freckles across her nose and the sky blue of her eyes and the prism of colors in her red hair—it’s not bright red, but she’s got lighter hair, almost blond, at her temples and a deep, auburn shade behind her neck.
I shake myself mentally and focus back on the kid in my arms. “She’s pretty happy right now, drinking from the bottle, so you can pet her just like a cat.”
Molly does as instructed, stroking the back of the kid with her entire hand. The bottle’s almost empty.
I look back up at Molly and her tears have spilled onto her cheeks. “I have literally never seen anything cuter,” she tells me, wiping her cheeks with the back of her free hand. She keeps stroking, and occasionally she brushes against my forearm or my flannel-covered chest. I feel every touch through the animal in my arms; the slight weight of Molly’s affection, the warmth of her standing beside me, even on this summer’s day, and the stroke of her skin, even accidentally, against the hair on my forearm, as if I’m being petted too.
I clear my throat. Right. Molly had asked some questions. What were they? Oh, right. First one: answered. Second one. “She’s so tiny because she was premature.” I explain her birth and how we weren’t sure she was going to survive. She drinks slower than she should at her age, and she’s pretty low energy. But I think she’s going to make it. Molly gets brave enough to stroke the kid’s little head, running a finger over the tiny poll and soft ears.
The kid releases the nipple, causing a few drops to soak into my flannel, and squirms. That’s a good sign, and it breaks the tension between me and Molly.
I place the animal back in its pen, and it ambles away, nosing the ground and then pooping. Molly peers in the cage. “Where’s its mom? Why is the poop yellow? I have so many questions.”
