L o r r i e
The Adventure of the Automated Cows
Don Quixote and the Adventure of the Automated Cows
It was a sunny morning in La Mancha, and Don Quixote
the illustrious knight without fear, sense, or a functioning compass awoke with a sudden revelation.
“Sancho!” he cried to his loyal squire, who was in the middle of trying to negotiate a breakfast egg out of a chicken.
“Today is the day we face the most cruel creatures of the Devil fire-breathing, steel clad, mechanical cows!”
Sancho Panza, who had already survived exploding windmills, talking oak trees, and one particularly aggressive goat, was less than enthusiastic.
“Señor, maybe we should just eat cheese today and stay calm. Cheese is peaceful.”
But Don Quixote could not be stopped. Armed with his rusty lance, a helmet that had once been a salad bowl, and a cape that looked suspiciously like a curtain, he mounted his faithful steed, Rocinante who was more suited for retirement than war.
They rode through the morning until they reached a large pasture. And there they stood: the “Automated Cows.”
Shiny machines, with blinking lights and a “mooo” that sounded more like “bzzz.”
In reality, it was a modern milking system installed by the local agricultural cooperative.
“Do you see them, Sancho?” Don Quixote pointed at the devices.
“These devilish beasts have replaced the poor real cows! It is our sacred duty to destroy them and restore the balance of nature!”
Sancho let out a deep sigh.
“Señor, those are machines. They only milk. They don’t fight. One of them just offered me a coffee.”
But Don Quixote was no longer listening. With a heroic cry somewhere between opera and asthma he charged.
Rocinante, surprisingly quick for a horse with back problems, galloped straight at the largest of the milking robots.
What followed was a scene of epic chaos, Don Quixote thrust his lance, got tangled in a milk hose, was slapped by a rotating brush, and landed backward in a vat of fresh milk.
Rocinante trotted along peacefully, seemingly having the time of her life.
Sancho, who had found a chair and a sandwich in the meantime, observed the spectacle and commented dryly,
“If he calls me crazy one more time, I’m pickling him in that bucket.”
Don Quixote emerged from the milk, gasping.
His armor dripped, his helmet was full of cream, and his dignity was probably lying somewhere near the cow brush.
“Sancho!” he called as he hauled himself out of the vat.
“The enemy is tough! It fights with invisible forces! I believe I’ve received a magical shower!”
“They call that pasteurization, Señor,” Sancho replied.
“I call it a miracle bath of the white dragon!” Don Quixote shouted and raised his lance triumphantly which was now nothing more than a bendy straw.
At that very moment, the farmer Ramón, owner of the field, arrived with a face full of disbelief.
“What the hell is going on here?! Who attacked my brand-new milking system?!”
“Fear not, noble citizen!” said Don Quixote proudly.
“I have freed you from the tyranny of these mechanical monsters! Cow freedom has been restored!”
Ramón looked at the steaming, tangled equipment, then at Don Quixote, then at Sancho, who was trying to pour himself a cola from a milking tube.
“You’re either a hero or a walking insurance claim,” Ramón said.
Sancho grinned. “Both. Depends on the time of day.”
In the end, Don Quixote was escorted off the pasture to the polite applause of the cows, mostly because they were terrified he might come back.
Sancho promised Ramón he would explain to his master what an electrical cable was, but honestly, he didn’t believe it himself.
And so they rode on a knight, a squire, a deeply annoyed horse, and the faint scent of whole milk in search of the next adventure.
Or at least a place where Don Quixote wouldn’t try to joust with agricultural equipment.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
**My heart, my words. Please respect them.**
Dear reader,
These words you are reading right now, whether it's a poem, a short story, or a thought is a piece of my soul. I write with passion, each word flowing from my heart, deeply connected to me. My writings are not just words; they are alive, carrying my emotions and essence within them. are not just words they are alive, carrying my emotions and essence within them.
If you plan to take them without my permission, know this: you are also taking a piece of my soul. And with every stolen word, I will always be present within the lines you use.
So be mindful… You never know what lies hidden between the lines, for words hold a power that goes far beyond the visible.💫
The Adventure of the Automated Cows
Don Quixote and the Adventure of the Automated Cows
It was a sunny morning in La Mancha, and Don Quixote
the illustrious knight without fear, sense, or a functioning compass awoke with a sudden revelation.
“Sancho!” he cried to his loyal squire, who was in the middle of trying to negotiate a breakfast egg out of a chicken.
“Today is the day we face the most cruel creatures of the Devil fire-breathing, steel clad, mechanical cows!”
Sancho Panza, who had already survived exploding windmills, talking oak trees, and one particularly aggressive goat, was less than enthusiastic.
“Señor, maybe we should just eat cheese today and stay calm. Cheese is peaceful.”
But Don Quixote could not be stopped. Armed with his rusty lance, a helmet that had once been a salad bowl, and a cape that looked suspiciously like a curtain, he mounted his faithful steed, Rocinante who was more suited for retirement than war.
They rode through the morning until they reached a large pasture. And there they stood: the “Automated Cows.”
Shiny machines, with blinking lights and a “mooo” that sounded more like “bzzz.”
In reality, it was a modern milking system installed by the local agricultural cooperative.
“Do you see them, Sancho?” Don Quixote pointed at the devices.
“These devilish beasts have replaced the poor real cows! It is our sacred duty to destroy them and restore the balance of nature!”
Sancho let out a deep sigh.
“Señor, those are machines. They only milk. They don’t fight. One of them just offered me a coffee.”
But Don Quixote was no longer listening. With a heroic cry somewhere between opera and asthma he charged.
Rocinante, surprisingly quick for a horse with back problems, galloped straight at the largest of the milking robots.
What followed was a scene of epic chaos, Don Quixote thrust his lance, got tangled in a milk hose, was slapped by a rotating brush, and landed backward in a vat of fresh milk.
Rocinante trotted along peacefully, seemingly having the time of her life.
Sancho, who had found a chair and a sandwich in the meantime, observed the spectacle and commented dryly,
“If he calls me crazy one more time, I’m pickling him in that bucket.”
Don Quixote emerged from the milk, gasping.
His armor dripped, his helmet was full of cream, and his dignity was probably lying somewhere near the cow brush.
“Sancho!” he called as he hauled himself out of the vat.
“The enemy is tough! It fights with invisible forces! I believe I’ve received a magical shower!”
“They call that pasteurization, Señor,” Sancho replied.
“I call it a miracle bath of the white dragon!” Don Quixote shouted and raised his lance triumphantly which was now nothing more than a bendy straw.
At that very moment, the farmer Ramón, owner of the field, arrived with a face full of disbelief.
“What the hell is going on here?! Who attacked my brand-new milking system?!”
“Fear not, noble citizen!” said Don Quixote proudly.
“I have freed you from the tyranny of these mechanical monsters! Cow freedom has been restored!”
Ramón looked at the steaming, tangled equipment, then at Don Quixote, then at Sancho, who was trying to pour himself a cola from a milking tube.
“You’re either a hero or a walking insurance claim,” Ramón said.
Sancho grinned. “Both. Depends on the time of day.”
In the end, Don Quixote was escorted off the pasture to the polite applause of the cows, mostly because they were terrified he might come back.
Sancho promised Ramón he would explain to his master what an electrical cable was, but honestly, he didn’t believe it himself.
And so they rode on a knight, a squire, a deeply annoyed horse, and the faint scent of whole milk in search of the next adventure.
Or at least a place where Don Quixote wouldn’t try to joust with agricultural equipment.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
**My heart, my words. Please respect them.**
Dear reader,
These words you are reading right now, whether it's a poem, a short story, or a thought is a piece of my soul. I write with passion, each word flowing from my heart, deeply connected to me. My writings are not just words; they are alive, carrying my emotions and essence within them. are not just words they are alive, carrying my emotions and essence within them.
If you plan to take them without my permission, know this: you are also taking a piece of my soul. And with every stolen word, I will always be present within the lines you use.
So be mindful… You never know what lies hidden between the lines, for words hold a power that goes far beyond the visible.💫