Season of Discontent -

..."T'was a season of discontent with all things relating to government.

As a writing bull, I like to listen and learn from the humans around me. All they can talk about these days is health care this and health care that...."

"Hooves, put down that pen and take this to the post office, please! And get me some stamps while you are there!"

The blaring, foghorn voice of my human rudely interrupts my journaling ruminations.

She, who must be obeyed, places the small package in my mouth, and hooks my Vera Bradley man-purse around my nose ring.

Thus, I am made ready for my sojourn to the U.S. Post Office.

My mission is to mail my package and purchase business postage stamps.

It is not far and, to be honest, I could use the exercise. The girth around my haunches weighs mightily on my tender hooves. Still, I press ahead. I dare say, I am nothing if not stylish, carrying my man-purse.

It is a day shrouded in heavy clouds, looming over my hunky loins.

As I near my destination, I hear something in the distance.

Hark! What ho!

I spy what appears to be a line curling around the inside of the post office, stretching halfway down the block.

This is unheard of!

"Can you believe this line?" I hear this repeated refrain as I make my meandering way to the back.

"They got rid of the stamp machine and now we have to wait forever. Sheesh!" comes the cry of the citizenry.

"Nice purse!" is directed at me more than once.

I modestly nod my appreciation.

Finding my place at the end of the line is not that much different than following in step with the herd. Luckily, I have had training in the field. I know this could take a while.

I picture myself grazing in a meadow. My modest goals are to avoid dropping my package, and refrain from emitting any noxious fumes from my hindquarters. This requires concentration at both ends.

Most of my line companions are used to seeing me out and about, running endless errands for my human. So, I attract little, if any, notice.

I must admit that my new man-purse garners many admiring comments and stares.

"Bless your heart, "Hooves!" is the warm greeting from the woman, who holds the door open for me.

As I close in on the counter, I hear grumbling all around me, but I am not deterred. I know this grumbling is all about "the government," and not about me.

After what seems like forever in bovine years, I reach my destination. I cannot help but moo in a sigh of satisfaction, as I lay my package on the counter, and delicately shake the money out of my Vera Bradley man-purse.

"Bless your heart, Hooves!" The clerk knows what I want from the exact change that falls out of my man-purse. "Nice purse!"

I am momentarily disarmed by the compliment, but the looming bad news spreads manure on my expectations of a successful outing.

"Sorry, Hooves. We don't have the stamps your human likes. All we have is these."

I gasp.

"These" are stamps bearing the likeness of Bart Simpson and the cast of The Simpsons.

Crestfallen, I cannot help but snort and paw the dirt.

"We got rid of our stamp machine, but the government in Washington didn't send us enough stamps to sell at the counter. Go figure!" He shrugs, helpfully.

Suddenly, I feel a compelling urge to lower my horns and charge at "the government," but "the government" is not here.

They are in Washington, too busy to send the right amount (also known as enough) stamps to my post office.

How hard would that be to figure out that you need plenty of stamps, if you sell plenty of stamps?

And this is "the government" that is going to take care of health care.

I'm glad I've had my shots, I moo to myself as I head home with my Simpson Stamps tucked in my Vera Bradley man-purse.

Mission accomplished.

Sort of.