Bessie here. I have to report on what's happening here. Someone needs to know. Is anyone out there? I really hope you can read this.
For nearly two months now the giants in this house have been moving Fred and myself around. I keep asking Fred to do something, take the bull by the horns. So to speak. But Fred's a load. He refuses to do a thing about it. It's always, "But the food's so yummy!" and "C'mon Bessie! They're just horsing around!" Well, I'm not a horse, thank you very much. So I must take matters into my own hands - er, hooves.
You won't believe the cruelties and injustice to which we've been subjected. The tall one, they call him Oatmeal Head, sneaks in every evening after the giants have ended their "meal" (I call it an abomination, the way they ingest vast quantities of my kind!), and moves us, just as I'm getting settled into my evening nap. The poses he subjects us to are humiliating. I try my best to get his attention, to stop the madness, but he ignores my moos.
As if that weren't bad enough, the rather round one, the one with the bad dye job (sure she was a redhead - once upon a time. Give it up, lady), comes barreling into the kitchen like a house on fire, carrying a large piece of machinery. She points it at us and presses a little button repeatedly, making a clicking sound. She does this for quite some time, sometimes blinding us in the process. It's hours before the flashing light, burned on my retinas, goes away.
Please, someone do something. I can't stand this anymore. It's my understanding that I was here to be pretty (which I think I do very well, unlike the redheaded giant), not to be a side show freak in this circus. Call PETA. Call Cow Protection. Stage an intervention. Just get us out of here, for Pete's sake! You don't necessarily need to get Fred out of here. He seems to think it's all fun and games.
Until I moo again ...