When I clean the manure and hay out of the barn stalls, I often  have an audience, as attentive to me as any teenager on Snapchat. These three are eternai optimists, they expect every single pocket will hold a cookie or an apple, they never tire of watching me, sending me their secret signals: give us a treat, give us a treat.

More often that I might care to admit, they succeed, and I open the can in the barn and give them a chunk of alfalfa or an oat cookie or a small piece of peppermint. They know what they are doing, and they know who they are dealing with.