Buckskins, boys.

A couple of different times throughout our marriage my husband has asked me what my favorite type of cow is. Most people don't have the pleasure of having a preference in this matter, but most are not married to Brad Williams (well exactly none of them as far as I'm aware). 

The first time he asked, I said "the gold ones".

He said, "you mean buckskins?"

"What's a buckskin?"

"Charolais/Red Angus Cross."

I mean obviously I was a newbie at that time (and still-ish) but okay, yeah, buckskins.

And as I said, over the years, he'd occasionally ask as we were driving to a sale or at a sale or past a pasture of cows, what my favorite type of cow was.

And I'd say, "the gold ones" and he'd say, "buckskins, boys!" and so it went.

In the 16 years I've been around, we've never had buckskins. Brad's always been a black angus man. Red Angus here and there. Red or black baldies occasionally. Never charolais' and never buckskins.

It's our anniversary.

Guess what my husband bought? 

Yep.

Buckskins.

The gold ones.

A gold steer has to be the traditional 
11th anniversary gift, I assume. Or a fatted calf? 

Actually it's steel. Because of it's strength and durability, but I'll do you one better. Nothing says strength and durability like steer cattle. 

Sweet, right? Get you a man that buys you your favorite cows. He's going to tell you it's only a coincidence and means nothing. That's his way.

I've grown accustomed to practicality and simplicity with Brad. He's not into gifts or surprises or displays of affection. He kind of thinks anniversaries and birthdays are senseless and frivolous. Not that a girl doesn't hope, but I've adopted a patient forbearance, I think, for his utility approach to marriage.  

The rare and quiet gestures, though, that don't garner, require, or in fact the ones that outright preclude any attention at all, are the ones that take my breath away.

Love doesn't have to be loud and obnoxious.

Sometimes its the faint rustle of hooves through manure, the quiet resonance of snorting in the early morning hours, and the low reverberation of flatulence.

(What? Show me a man who doesn't posture farting as a territorial display of love.)