Come to Mama

I figure I may need some proof for those skeptics out there who are want to believe my drunken cow stories, so I went out to document the bovine debauchery firsthand. Below you can see our assistant winemaker, Steve, dumping a wheelbarrow-full of fermented grape skins in the field. What is more noticeable, however, is the clear back-end view of every cow in that field. Normally, any human in their midst is front and center, because they have a deep, deep distrust of our species (can you blame them?). If I as much as tiptoe next to the fence, every single one of them is staring at me in a matter of six seconds. And I only say six because some of them are a bit "slower" than the rest, god bless them. But during wine making season, I could be on fire, screaming like a maniac, and they would still turn their asses to me. 

Below, you can see the actual proof of what I write. That purple mound can be no other than fermented grape skins. There are more cows waiting in the wings, but they have to head-butt these five formidable females out of the way before they can partake in the spoils. And that takes guts, no matter what your species. 

I'm not sure if you can tell, but the dude on the left is the bull. He is the only bull.  The other fifteen cows are heifers. And he is staring right at me. Normally this would be cause to soil one's self, but I had one up on him; I knew he was good and drunk. 

Based on his for-the-moment companion's cavalier tongue language, so did she.  What an opportunist.