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  • Reyna Bradford

First Love (written 10/27/20)

Yesterday I sold my senior buck, Petra. It really was time. Petra has

been here four or five years, and he's really contributed all that he

could to my herd. It's gotten to the point where I now have quite a few

of his daughters who, of course, can't be bred back to him. So Petra has

gone to be a herd sire at another farm, and next spring I'll bring in

another fella to replace him.

In the meantime, for this autumn's breeding season, it's now all up to

Cognac.

I was hoping he'd be ready for the job. But honestly, I wasn't quite

sure. Born at the end of March, Heritage Song Cognac M95 is still just

barely seven months old. He is what you might call a total rookie in the

love department. And, without any intention of offending his honor, he

is smaller than any of my senior does who would be first in line for his

affections. This could be a bit of a problem.

So when I walked out to the corrals tonight and heard really bizarre

sounds coming from somebody in the vicinity, I was slightly taken aback.

I needed a minute to put the name to the voice and to realize that it

was, in fact, Cognac, talking to the girls.

I had never heard his conversational flirting before. Petra had seen to

that. Even though the two boys had been in separate pens, Petra's

overbearing dominance and unquestioned authority had snapped a tight lid

on Cognac's even considering making any attempts on the harem's

attentions. In Petra's very short play book, those ladies belonged to

him, to him, and to him alone. End of discussion.

Well, not anymore. Petra was gone, and Cognac was making his first move.

The chosen lady in question was Novel.

Novel is one of the sweetest does I have. She's a two-year-old this

year, and just like her mother, Paisley, she is a gentle spirit who

tries very hard to do everything right, especially on the milking stand.

She's a quiet, unobtrusive doe who stays out of everyone's way, but who

is always aware of where I am and what I'm asking. She loves licorice

treats. She loves to be milked. So much so that she is one of only two

does that I'm still milking this late in the year. And now, she also

apparently loves Cognac.

They cuddled and kissed through the fence, Novel furiously wagging her

tail while her conquering hero babbled and blubbered and ogled her

shamelessly. I mean, it was a magic moment. Who was I to stand in the

way of true love?

I led her in to his corral and, sure enough, the sparks started to fly.

I had to laugh as I stood at the gate for a minute, listening to him

sweet-talk his first sweetheart. And she certainly won't be the last.

There's a lot riding on this little man. He has four more senior does

and at least four doe kids from this past spring to make happy in the

next few weeks. And judging by what I've witnessed tonight, it won't be

a problem. In the light of the sparkling Kansas stars, under the smile

of the harvest moon, with magic and poetry in the fragrant air (okay,

the air really wasn't that fragrant), with the surging, orchestral music

of brass and violins in the background ... Okay, there was no music, but

you can't blame me for at least trying to make things a little romantic.

Oh well, never mind. Forget I mentioned it. Forget I was even there.

Those two certainly did. They didn't need music or poetry. They had

things figured out well enough on their own.


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