Bleating, she clawed at the dirt with her right front hoof as if searching for a stash of Vicodin. Her udder was so swollen she couldn't get her hindquarters down. Twenty minutes later I was crouched in the hay at Ghost Town Farm, pushing away chickens and peering into the pen that housed the expectant mother, Bébé. "Hi, it's Novella Carpenter," the caller said. The phone rang when I was shoeless and only a couple of sips into my morning coffee.
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