Jen hung a cow’s head on the wall in our kitchen. Not an artsy picture of flowers or a finely woven basket only appropriate for a kitchen’s décor. A cow’s head.

The kids have already named it. Madeline started calling it Kathy, at least until Joshua objected, telling her that it needed to be ascribed a traditional cow name. The kids chose Bessie. Personally, I think Kathy was a great choice. But no matter, I usually just refer to it as the “Cow’s head.”

We’ve had friends over since the head was put on display. Funny, but they didn’t say anything. Nothing at all. I’m surprised. I wonder if they kept quiet throughout the visit because it was a situation like those where you see something so strangely out of the ordinary in someone’s home – strange enough that it makes you wonder about the person’s ability to live alone without proper supervision – that you stumble over your comment, not intending to offend, but knowing that’s how it is being birthed verbally anyway.

“Say, that’s a really…neat…cow head. Where, um, where’d you get that?”

Jen likes it. I’m getting used to it. As long as it doesn’t one day awaken and start adding to the children’s swirling cloud of never ending chatter, it is welcome in my home. One more voice just might cause me to live in our basement. On the other hand, I keep telling Jen that I need a whisky-drinking partner, so if the cow’s head, or Bessie, was so inclined, I would certainly oblige.

I’m writing this review with the cow just over my shoulder, and for some reason I feel as though Bessie, already very familiar with the caliber of whisky that I prefer, is concerned that I have a bottle of Macgavin’s Highland Single Malt whisky before me.

I’m glad she’s concerned, although she needn’t worry. I’m a professional. So, here goes…

Hmm. The nose isn’t too hefty, but because I am sensing the sour exhaust from a distant chemical factory, I’m hesitant to take too deep a draw. I don’t want to end up with emphysema. Okay, maybe a little more. Yep, there’s the alcohol, and maybe a little bit of something sugary. I’d say one of those orange sweets I often mine from among the cherry, grape, and sour apple candies just inside the entrance of a particular funeral home I know well.

Arghhurrlmp… “Say, that’s a really…neat…taste. Where, um, where’d you get that?”

I’m almost positive I just drank orange Kool-Aid spiked with the silt of the ethanol tank down at the corner gas station here in Linden. There’s some burnt popcorn (which perhaps explains the ethanol), a sizeable dosage of those funeral home candies – except liquefied, and a strange anticoagulant, which I’m guessing is used to keep the jumble from hardening.

The finish is medium. It vests the tongue with the candy syrup and then throws in a little vinegary malt just for the heck of it.

Needless to say, Bessie, I was less than pleased with this particular edition. During our future times together, rather than staring beyond me, perhaps you might go ahead and speak your mind when you behold me venturing into whisky foolishness. The least you could do is moo.