Bob walks the familiar path between the pens, a battered notebook in hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear. He pauses to watch the sheep huddle together, their wool catching the morning light. The rhythmic clucking, the lowing of cows, and the occasional bark of a distant dog fill the air with a comforting symphony.
Bob[/@ch_1] approaches the chicken coop. Feathers flutter and a pink dog, with ears perked and tongue lolling, trots at his side, ever alert.]
"Alright, Rosie, let's see who's up and about this morning," he says, patting the pink dog affectionately.
He crouches beside the coop, counting out loud as hens strut past. Bob's eyes narrow in concentration, making sure none slip by unnoticed.
"Oh, not again! Rosie, after her!"
The chase brings laughter from Bob, even as he scribbles a quick note in his book about the goat's mischief. The sun glints off his notebook, highlighting the careful tallies and scribbled animal names.
Bob[/@ch_1] sits on the fence, surveying the bustling fields. The sky is a brilliant blue, dotted with drifting clouds, and the animals settle into quiet routines.]
He flips through his notebook, double-checking his counts. "Thirty-two sheep, twenty-one chickens, twelve cows, and one very troublesome goat," he mutters with a smile.
Rosie rests her head on his knee, tail thumping contentedly.
Bob makes his final rounds, ensuring every animal is safe. He pauses at the gate, gazing over the peaceful scene, heart full with the quiet joy of his task.
"Another day, another count," he says softly, closing his notebook as Rosie barks in agreement.
Bob lingers outside a moment longer, listening to the soft sounds of the farm at rest, grateful for the simple rhythm of counting and caring.
He turns for home, Rosie at his heels, both ready to greet another sunrise—and another day of keeping watch over their beloved herd.
