Ryan Dennis

I had started the milking early on Christmas morning so the family wouldn’t have to wait long to open presents. On the way to the parlor, I passed the sick pen. 1225 sat in the dim light, her eyes sunken and her chin in the straw.

It’s the price one pays for having friends. This year I got weddinged.

It happens to many people: You hit that age when all of your friends are getting married, and suddenly your calendar is filled with nothing but ceremonies and receptions.

In the opening scene of Death and Nightingales, Beth is awoken by the bawling of a distressed animal. While in some ways it may be the call of the beast inside her, it is also, in actual terms, a cow with bloat. She slips the trocar in her dress, finds the cow in the brush and pierces its side to give it relief.

“But it’s past its expiration date,” she said. “How do you know it’s still good?” “Because it’s butter,” I said. “It’s always good.”

I know when my father has done something wrong because there’s no butter in the fridge.

When I was in junior high, our school principal showed up drunk at a basketball game. He shouted at the referees over a bad call, calling the decision “asinine.” When they gave him a warning, he told them to look it up.

“You’re going to die.”

It was my landlord who said this, and she couldn’t hide all of her smugness in saying it. It was the first of many times we would hear it.