But that's not the point of this story.
When I was about 8, I asked my dad if I could have a cow. He said sure, and I picked one out. It was a white calf with black, screwy lines all over it. I called it Marble. She was cute, and easily distinguishable from the other cattle. Now, effectively calling the cow mine meant nothing, as my dad still took care of her and such.
Every so often, I go along with my dad to feed the cows, and Marble is always there. He always points her out, and says "Recognize her?" And I say, "Sure do!". We then talk about her health, how she's doing, etc, etc.. It's very nice.
But the day before yesterday, I realized something. Marble is like 16 years old. And I don't recognize any of the other cows. I always thought that it was because they all just sortof look the same, but it's not true. My dad sells them fairly often, and tends to keep a young herd, near as I can tell.
So he kept Marble, simply because she is one of the rare connections between us. She's "my cow" in name only, but that was enough.
So there's my sappy story about my dad, myself, and a cow.
Laugh if you want, but I am touched.