Lovingly kissing her chelicerae, I looked

Lovingly kissing her chelicerae, I looked deep into her compound eyes and began to stroke her opisthosoma, her book gills all aflutter, her tail spine quivering in the night air.

She was mine. I tickled her pedipalps with a pleasure feather I'd bought at an adult bookstore. I'd been doing some sensual reading. She had a perfect hourglass tagmata, you know

what that means. I don't. But that's because I was raised Catholic. "My calves," she giggled, pointing at her elbow. This was one of many endearing confusions, the head trauma was

probably something different entirely. She was covered in cow tattoos, like a whole bunch of cows drawn in varying styles and sizes. She was showcasing one of her 'moosaics' at

the Farside Gallery. Yes, it was my bovine librarian fantasy of many years ago. I hardly recognized her with tattoos, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. The 'moosaic' was grazing

The field of aging folding stories and discovering some mooving lines. Never underestimate the power of memory! Four years later, the other cows still grazed that she knew well.

Four more years even later & the Bovine Apocalypse was hardly a blip on the pop culture consciousness of most aged Folders who are still looking for that next macereña or pet rock.

Squawkers scratched his cloaca and stared out at the rain. People could be so fickle. He missed the smell of all those cows. Such a comforting smell. But now they were gone and

He knew she went with Him, even if he WAS Goofy; or, at least; with Horace Horsecollar, on the Steamboat Willie, morphing back into an animated state—home--never to be seen again.