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Life out in the suburbs was always a dream for Bertha Kine--a chance to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city and make a good start for her children. Not many other cows in her family could say they left the rural life of the farmstead and went to college like her. Fewer still knew ever said they'd forsake a 9-5 to work from home to spend more time there for their families.

She watches out the kitchen window as she packs the lunches for the coming week. She scoops a half-cup measure of oats into mason jars, watching the sprawling grass of the large yard and admiring the simplistic beauty of such a dream home.

Bob is outside, letting the evening sun beat down his shirtless chest. If anyone had a dad bod, it was that old bull, to be sure. And she loved him for it, despite losing that football-player physique she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

"Hey, Mom, do we have any whole milk?"

"No, Billy," the momma cow says, turning to face her son, hands on her hips. "I told your father to buy some, but he just got up to do the lawn."

The next man of the house sighs. Billy takes after his mother's Holstein appearance But wears his father's shaggy Highland hair down over his eyes. He bites his lip and marches past his mother, opening the fridge and swishing his tail. "Dangit!" he grumbles. "I can't game without my snacks."

Bertha pats her son's head, cooing softly. "There, there, dear. There's nothing to worry about."

The young man grunts, spinning on his hoof and marching back down the stairs to his little gamer den.

Bertha scoops another half-cup of oats but pauses and looks to the pink mason jar a moment, frowning.

The housewife makes her way up the stairs, holding the jar, and approaches the room down the hall. She takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

No response.

"Becca?" She asks, whispering.

No response.

"Do you still like oats in your meal? Or are you going green only?"

The door opens a crack, and Bertha's nose wrinkles. The face that peers half-hidden is as shaggy and unkempt as Bertha's husband, but with even less of the maintenance her husband provides.

"I'm streaming."

"Becca, I know you work hard, dear. It's just I wanted to make sure you were eating right and-

"Just grass. No oats." The young woman says, shutting the door curtly.

Bertha sighs, returning to the kitchen, where she pours some lemonade for Bob. She walks out onto the deck, wiping her brow. "Wow, it's so hot, even with the shade."

Bob parks his mower and hobbles up the stairs. "Yup," he grunts, taking the drink and guzzling it.

"Lots of hard work for my man," Bertha teases, tapping his stomach.

He snorts. "Can't push mower anymore," he grumbles.

"Huh?"

"The gut. It's my excuse."

She frowns.

"Do you think I should lose weight?"

"Huh?" he adjusts his baseball cap, looking down at her through his shag-covered eyes. "Woman... the hell you talkin' about?"

"No need to get that tone with me," Bertha says. "I work hard, every day, keeping this house in order. I can't help that I'm getting older. I can't help the kids aren't clip-clopping around the deck anymore!"

Bob wraps his arms around her, pulling her in close. He's sweaty, sticky, and stinky, but Bertha can't help herself from hugging him back, anyway.

"I want to have that again, Bob."

"Huh?"

"I want to have the pitter-patter of feet. The cooing of a calf. I want to make milk again."

"Whoa, now. Where did this come from?" Bob says, stomping away, hands going into his jeans pockets.

"The doctor said we could conceive again."

"Bill's 20! I ain't a young bull no more, Bertha," Bob snorts. "And it ain't like you're willing to do what I want to get it up."

"I don't like doing butt stuff," Bertha says, folding her arms over her chest. "I think this conversation's over, Bob."

"Yeah, I think so, too," he says, "Thanks for the drink."

Bertha storms out of the house. Even as the sun sinks deep into the horizon, the heat gets to the cow. She slumps on the porch, sitting back and staring at the moon above. "Dang it all," she grumbles. "What am I gonna do?"

The hiss of hydraulics helps her back to reality from the pool of darkness that swirled within her mind. She sees a moving truck pull up at the old Henderson place.

Blinking, she climbs to her hooves and dusts off her mom's jeans.

Large and broad-shouldered workers climb out of the truck, each hefting large furniture sets. As Bertha watches them, she wraps an arm around her side, bringing a knuckle to her mouth, which she bites and suckles, seeing the men working in the scant dusk sun.

Nocturnal creatures--large cats primarily, but each of them working their well-muscled bodies, hefting and sweating and grunting and lifting-it's exotic and enticing.

For a time, she was transported to a couple decades ago. Bob was a strong, broad-shouldered worker making enough to support two kids and a woman with a dream.

By the time they were nearly done, the tranquil air of the place was destroyed by the roar of a motorcycle. The slim figure riding it hops off and pulls off its helmet.

Golden fur flops out, revealing a coyote's face underneath. The newcomer looks over the new place, then directly faces Bertha.

"Hello, neighbor!" he says. "Caught your curious eye, have I? The name's Cody. Cody Rey!