Cowabunga! How dairyng!
Elsie is no coward, but she might be pasture prime. The last time she jumped over the moon she almost missed and blamed it on a sore calf. That cheesy excuse spread quickly, but hay, no need to bale her out or otherwise come to her D fence. She’s as tough as leather, but maybe she wasn’t feeling her oats – or maybe she got the wrong brand. Maybe she should have had trail mix instead. Or a veggie burger, yoke and flies. Maybe she couldn’t harness enough energy to lifter self. Maybe she should have worn her corral-colored tutu and horn-rimmed glasses. Maybe she should have taken butter stock of her situation. Or maybe she ruminated too much and was simply dungfounded.
So let’s not feed a rumor that might contain a grain of truth. And let’s not tell tails. Such tripe cud turnout to be mooot.
And let’s not rib her about it. Let’s spare any cutting remarks. Let’s not chute the messenger. And let’s hold the tongue lashings. They wouldn’t make a lick of sense and might lead to a salt!