Ruminant, in spite of your horrendous table manners,

I am drawn to you by fascination not all together grotesque.

True, you regurgitate your dinner, slimy and only semi-

digested, in blowback on the rich mahogany, but your

slow, circular rechewing, well, that stick-to-itiveness has

never found a reverent, respectful homage in the dull, soft

‘u’ of “cud”. I have read, I admit, that tannins are the hemlock

to your calm, Socratic dental pad, and while I am no stranger

to a finely aged Merlot, you need not feel self-conscious,

Beaujolais nouveau can grace our table too, if only you will

stay with me. Ruminant, an only slightly unpleasant crawling

sensation comes over the surface of my skin as I consider

the bacteriological wonderland of your gut, methane output

utterly unrivaled. Oh pungent social quandary, detectable by

nose from miles, oh ruminant, please stay, my dear, I love you.

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