You know Moo’s name isn’t Moo, right? We just call her that. Moo, Moomalade, Moomy, Moomers, Moo Moo.
It’s Sassy’s fault.
Like Beezus and Ramona, it’s Sassy’s fault.
Some of Moo’s friends call her Moo, too.
Moo really likes cows and milk. I’d say it’s because of her nickname, but I can’t be too sure. She really likes rocks, marshmallows, and the color orange, too.
A long, long time ago, one December when Moo had just turned two, I’d gone out to Plainfield to shop with Beauty Queen. Strolling through the toy aisle, Moo fell in love with a plush cow.
The cow was as big as she.
I pulled the cow down and let her squish it.
“Cowy,” she murmured into its fluff.
Later that month, when The Mister was home on leave and it was time to do the gift shopping, I mentioned we should go to Walmart, because they had this stuffed cow Moo loved.
So we went to our local Walmart, but they didn’t have the cow.
So we drove a lil farther, to another one, but they didn’t have the cow, either.
Finally, he drove us all the way back out to Plainfield in hopes the cow would still be there. It was.
Three hours and who knows how much gas money, spent in the search of a $5 plush cow for a two-year-old. The lengths daddies will go to to —
Totally worth it.
Moo’s thirteen now, and Cowy still has prime real estate on her bed.