She paced in the front stall, tail stuck out behind her, ears flat to her head, trunk waving around. She rumbled and blew long gusts and generally announced that she was upset, unhappy, and having a really bad day. Nakri wasn’t as wound up, but neither was she the picture of pachyderm passivity. The cows milled about the barn, scuffling through straw and wood chips, pacing in and out of the two stalls. This was a change from their calm cooperation half an hour earlier in the morning. Ian had stood by while I wielded the cup on a stick, tooted the whistle, and pitched out dried fruit. Damrey was no dummy and had searched the floor in front of the hay rack for her raisin reward before realizing that this time I had managed to dunk the wad properly into the hay rack. Nakri was the soul of cooperation. Anything for dried mango seemed to be her operating principle. But now people were gathering inside the barn, in clusters by the service door and in the aisle along the viewing window.
