His name was Rex and he was a large collie type, slightly overweight, with a white ruff and thick gold hair matted here and there with burrs all the colors smudged liberally with fresh, green cow manure he’d rolled in just that morning in back of the barn. (They love the smell of fresh manure on their backs and the sides of their necks.)
This particular farm had nine milk cows, three pigs, a pen of calves, a couple of palomino ponies for two daughters who would someday be old enough to ride them, a coop full of chickens and perhaps five hundred acres under cultivation.
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