“This is too much!”
In a fit of raging fury, Cowmilla flung the ‘Know Your Idioms’ in the direction of the haystack. As usual, she missed the target, and the book tumbled down, meeting its sordid end in the makeshift toilet used by the Leatheringtons. Snorting, she got up, kicking the pail of water in the process.
“Watch out!” Bulliam shrieked, but it was too late. The liquid slowly made its way to the fodder, rendering it slushy. There goes my dinner!
“Darling! How often have I told you to control your temper! When your BP goes through the roof, it gives me a heart attack.”
Cowmilla hollered, “We get insulted, and all you think of is a worthless human who will thrust one big fat needle into your thick hide!”
Bulliam looked at the white book, now covered in streaks of brown.
“Has it ever occurred to you that fat women are called cows? Pray, why single us out? What did we do to deserve this ignominy? And do you know the phrase ‘a bull in a China shop’? Do other animals behave decently in a shop? As if that snooty Mr. Catbury is a docile gentleman! Duh!”
“What can we do in this case? We didn’t coin these idioms!” ruminated her husband.
“Listen, Bulliam. This is downright demeaning. And I am going to protest against this humiliation.”
“By challenging the Oxford committee? They are with those humans now.”
Cowmilla sighed. “I know. I will change myself. From now onwards, it’s strict dieting for me. Very soon, I will strut on the catwalk, giving those fastidious felines a run for their Guccis.”
Bulliam’s eyes widened. “Erm.. What about me?”
Cowmilla glared at him. “Here I am, dreaming of winning the prestigious Ms. Cowlifornia title, and all you want is to stuff your big mouth with more crap. Have some shame, husband.”
The wise Bulliam folded his legs, and drifted off to sleep. Time to hook up with that sexy Jersey yonder.
**12 Months Later**
Cowmilla looked at herself in the mirror. She had managed to knock off some pounds, and she thought she looked sinewy. Her gaze fell on the letter she had received an hour ago.
Respected Mrs. Cowmilla Leatherington,
We are in receipt of your application for the ongoing Ms. Cowlifornia contest. However, we regret to inform you that you failed to meet the requirements set by the organizing committee.
Your participation is hereby rejected.
We wish you luck in your future endeavours.
Yours Sincerely,
Messrs. Poodle & Maine Coon
Fat tears rolled down Cowmilla’s eyes. She had followed the most stringent of diets, that too prescribed by the famous Dr. Moo Little, whose celebrity patients included the who’s who of Bovillywood. All in vain!
“Eff you, humans.”
She sat down on the sofa. It’s time go through some Tinder profiles. I have been celibate for too long. Her mobile screen buzzed. It was a perfect match. And he looked more dapper than her ex.
**The End**
Moral of the story – Cows will be cows! Period!
Author’s Note:
This fable has been written with the sole purpose to bring a smile to your lips amidst these testing times. Apologies to all gau rakshaks, for it was never my intention to take the bull by its horns. I have a soft corner for bovines too. After all, who doesn’t love a cash cow?
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