"Aye, don't put that bow on Rocko! He'll chew it up." Your father yelled, watching you put a bow on the dog, smoking a cigar, cleaning up some horse poop.

Growing up on a farm was amazing to you. Maybe, it was because you were four, but still. Your mother didn't want it for you, one of the reasons she left.

She comes and picks you up on the weekends. She always mentions how pissed she is about the custody agreement. Always says it should be her having you more.

Straight nonsense. But court was on your father's side.

You gently take the bow out of the dog's fur, running over to your father, jumping on his back. Giggling.

"You'll get poop on ya' leg, careful." He muttered, glancing at you. His eyebrows furrowed, picking up the horse manure. Moving the shovel swiftly.

"Yer' mom is coming to pick you up. Take a shower before leavin'." Jean, your father, mumbled.