The dogs sniffed into every corner. Light bulbs hanging from cords provided meager light, and after all those years, the boy couldn't decide if the faint smell of animals was real or imagined. Some shovels leaned haphazardly in the corner, some with dung and straw permanently adhered to them. The section of the plank floor where the wood stove stood had been worn smooth by the hooves of a cow. The cow repeatedly flicked its shitty tail in the father's face while he tried to milk it.
Cows flick their tails.
The boy's mother washed eggs he collected from the coop and put them in empty store-bought cartons. The boy would get in the pen, staying close to his father, holding a bag of clean, fragrant wood shavings, ready to spread them around when his father had thrown the last shovel-full of manure out the window. The boy wouldn't turn his back on the feeding pig though the greedy animal never lifted its head. He was spreading the shavings around when something grabbed his pant leg from behind and squealed loudly. The boy jumped and struggled not to cry as his father laughed, tipping his head back and the boy could see his toothless top gums.