Each morning, I rise to the sound of them clumping heavily across my porch. A peek out the window reveals them licking the ground with their fat tongues, slurping up every last morsel of spilt bird seed from the rafters.
Their appetites are infinite and boundless. They will eat mesquite and children's chalk with glee.
Should the LORD GIVER OF FOOD choose to cower indoors, the bovines mosey up to the SHRINE OF ALL FOOD and gloop their boogery noses across my living room window, gawping at the immense splendor of FOOD.
When I walk to my car, thereby leaving the SHRINE OF ALL FOOD unguarded, the bovines descend like paparazzi (but fatter).
I hate to be uncharitable to cows. Theirs is a rough lot. I have been told many times that they are benign, peaceful creatures. And I am in no position to condemn gluttony. For one thing, such condemnation might require me to drop this here cake and stand up, which is surely too drastic an action for the circumstances.
But I cannot ignore the growing FOOD conspiracy in my midst. There is the matter of their clandestine gatherings behind the barn, and their plans to build a secret bunker and tunnel into the SHRINE OF ALL FOOD.
How do I know about their plans? Well, because it's incredibly tricky to stash secret plans out of sight when you have fat hooves instead of opposable thumbs. Plus, looking casual about the notion of TAKING OVER ALL FOOD is impossible for cows.
So, should dispatches from mañana ever suddenly cease, you will know that the cows have won. In this instance, please don't delay in sending a rescue team. And food.