Every morning, before most people hit snooze, we’re in the barn.
Milking cows.
Mucking stalls.
Same boots. Same buckets. Same rhythm.
It’s not flashy.
It’s not fast.
But it works.
We take what the land gives.
We build steady.
We grow the herd, one cow at a time.
Then one morning—half-awake, hands full of buckets—you see it.
Off in the distance.
Shimmering in the dawn light.
Moving like no cow you’ve ever seen.
A unicorn.
You blink.
You squint.
No way.
But the signs are there.
The glint. The glide. The sparkle.
So you drop the bucket.
Forget the cows.
And sprint, full tilt, across the pasture—chasing magic.
But unicorns don’t like to be caught.
They vanish.
Just when you think you’ve got ‘em, poof—gone.
Leaving nothing behind but hoofprints and a trail of broken buckets.
Back at the barn?
The cows are pissed.
The stalls are a mess.
And all that milk you were counting on?
Spilled.
That’s why we don’t chase unicorns.
We can enjoy ‘em from a distance.
Tell tall tales about ‘em.
Maybe raise a glass to ‘em come Friday night.
But dairy farms are not built on fairy dust.
They are built consistency.
On buckets filled, day after day.
