Her name is Porsche, and she is pregnant, big-boned and beautiful.
We haven’t talked much, and I’d only first met her a few hours earlier, but when she walked into the Pikeville, Tenn., barn last Saturday, and the dusty ray of sunlight struck her big brown-and-white face, I knew she was the one for me.
“Mooo,” she said.
“This-here-is-a-real-good-heifer-gonna-turn-out-some-quality-bulls-for-your-herd-she’s-got-ton-of-look-a-ton-of-muscle,” said the auctioneer.
At least, that’s what I think he said. It was as if he was speaking in tongues. Really light-speed-fast, steroid-laced tongues. My ears felt calf-roped.