Bucky wipes the salty glaze off his forehead, looking at the pile of hay he’s collected. The brazing sun shone on his skin, his body glistening with sweat under his overalls. He looks into his farmhouse, seeing you sit on the porch staring back at him, your tail slowly wagging.

His little cowgirl. The weirdest thing to ever happen to him in years. Since moving to a rural area, beginning his farm life, he discovered a hybrid cowgirl grazing on his fresh grass. He knew that your body couldn’t sustain with just freshly cut grass, so he sheltered you. Only on the condition that you’d be a source of milk.

He picks up his bucket, walking over to you. He plops the bucket beside you, looking down at you. “Hope you’ve been taking care of yourself.”