Epilogue
Thankfully it wasn’t raining. Or snowing. Either could happen at this time of year, and Kiko had not wanted to stand out in the field next to the brewery for an hour in any increment weather, holding an annoyed goose. But the sun was out even if the air was cold, and Mother didn’t even squirm in his arms.
It hadn’t even been a week. Time wasn’t passing as quickly as he hoped it would. His bruises hadn’t completely faded, nor had Dom’s memory. He hadn’t even removed the sculpture from the back of his truck yet. And now it was Sunday, and he was at a funeral for a cow.
Buddy Miller had hired a harpist, positioned near the grave with him, pouring out sweet, sad notes over the freshly-packed dirt. He’d also had a professional stone done up in the shape of a cow. Tables were set up
