Today is the kind of day that certain gray to black centered clouds would hang beautifully over. Blushed and dialogue ready, I began looking for Ian to discuss with him the issue of the cows. I couldn’t find him and yelled, “Where are moo?” instead of you. I know the need to discuss this is central so I looked and looked. I finally found him. He was standing full six foot length with one leg in the bathroom sink, completely immersed in lather from the knee down shaving his leg with a disposable razor. The conversation caused Ian’s brow to bend and his voice to terse. Ian argued, “Why should you care? I’m the one who gets up everyday to milk the two spare cows?” He referred to the utter with a scrunched-up nose and shoulders, choosing to delicately call it, their cornucopia. We reasoned, mooed, and wiped the lather off Ian’s leg and still I felt like the scum boiling over the edge of an old rusty pot.

Every morning the bucket of milk Ian brings into the kitchen reminds me of a gallon of white paint that needs stirring. The ribs of oil thicken when stirred, just like paint. Ian drinks the milk with his coffee and does not understand why I do not. I had plenty of milk variations and substitutes to choose from but not anymore. We use the milk that Ian brings in. I told Ian while he was shaving his leg that his lungs sound like he has cobwebs made of milk strung-up inside them. He agreed he’s been drinking too much milk.

Monday morning sun shines too bright in our kitchen. Ian talks to me over his bowl of cereal. The cereal box is ripped open. The top is torn too. The back of the box is facing him the front is facing me. It has the picture of some smiling child on it. Ian is very enthusiastic about his topic. He shovels and chews as quickly as he talks. From the glass pitcher he pours more milk into the bowl. His topic includes laughter the mirth lingers on his face. I laugh too. He has both his arms around the bowl, his left hand holds the spoon over the bowl like a pen over a checkbook. Eager full swoops from bowl to mouth, vocabulary in between, full swoops again trail. It is not until the instant that he turns to look out the bay window, while eating in the kitchenette, that I see his profile immersed in a full Monday morning sun. In that moment, no shadow’s has Ian. Leaning against the cabinets I listen to Ian compile words into paragraphs which convey perfect pictures of reason and detail. He is very good at it. I believe he just told me that he would like to purchase two oxen.

I work with six seamstresses I employ at my small quilting factory called Ahimsa Quilts. I walked there today and along the way I thought of some new designs. The cows had given me some inspiration if only out of frustration and curiosity. This wonderful cow scheme came alive. With a sketch pad and plenty of black and white sharpened pencils I drew quilts with cows dancing about while riding on ten speed racer bikes. They frolicked amidst rolling green pastures and the bluest of skies. The fat, patched quilts had lace around the edges and cups, pitchers and bowls of cereal filled with milk under a bright full Monday morning sun happily dancing around the border. They were beautiful. I made up ten samples and quickly faxed drawings to several of my more eclectic clients. They each ordered one hundred to start and more if the sales were good. So we began the fall collection each involving winter and summer scenes with cows doing everything ours don’t and excluding the smells.

Part 4, Tomorrow!