Meet Slobbery Joe.
Son of Rosemary, destined for eventual slaughter; he's charming in his own special, frantic way. Three times a day he is bottle fed, at least two of those times by yours truly. He now knows my voice and will prance around his little pen excitedly until I emerge over his enclosure to offer him the goods. Morning and evening it's fresh from milking. Noontime I heat it up in hot water, as one would for a baby. He slobbers and slurps and sucks until it's fully drained, usually within a matter of seconds as opposed to minutes. Every single time, I feel almost as sad as he must feel to see his crestfallen, buggy eyes staring back when I have no more left to give.
Oh Joe. I can't help but know that it's a fact of life that you will be delicious one day. I shall love you so even still.
