Of Cows and Things

I texted my brother telling him about a particular incident that my sister had told me about. She was driving through a more rural part of town and had to stop for an old cowherd who was guiding his herd across the road. She waited patiently until the entire company had crossed, upon which the man smiled a toothy, betel-stained smile at her and remarked, “Ni, jing bhabriew ine i kong!” (Something like ‘What a pretty little lady!’). My sister was embarrassed and amused and we had laughed about it.

My brother obviously found the occasion rich in jocular potential, judging from the string of messages I received from him:

“I’ll find him and when I’m done with him, he would have uddered his last words!”

I was laughing over that when the next one arrived:

“What? He made a moo on her?”

Later, another one:

“I asked her about it and she said it was all bullshit.” (With apologies that this more obvious one was so late in the coming)

The next day, I asked him, “Why, no more cow jokes?”
His reply: “Nah, I’m milked dry.”

I thought I should write about this while I still remember it all co(w)herently.