… on the other side of the fence.
Poor Moxie. I don’t think she’ll ever get over her first year of sickness and malnutrition, which left her at fifteen months the size of a five-month calf (minus her tail and one ear).
She reminds me of a child of poverty who, even after rescue, cannot sleep unless clutching a roasted chicken leg. Since coming to me, Moxie has always had good food and plenty of it. Nevertheless she remains anxious that she might go without.
Here she is, on her knees to reach under the lintel of the calf stall, eating Cooper’s small flake of hay.
Right behind her, she has five flakes of her own hay, but she can’t let Cooper’s small mite get away.
Coop is philosophical about his foster mama’s emotional quirks.
He munches quietly on Moxie’s hay.