‘Allo, dearie, I suppose you’d like to hear all about your hero Aslan and those Pevensie folk, but you don’t want to hear it from the likes of me.
You want to talk to Edmund’s horse Phillip or p’raps those Beavers (desperate suck-ups the Beavers). They’ll tell you want you want to hear.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I was not a fan of that bitch queen at all. Not at all. Us Jersey cows are not made for the cold, and the White Witch had the thermostat turned down all the time, but at least when she was running things, me and the other ladies were more or less left to my own devices.
But since the Pevensies have taken over the establishment, it has been nothing but toil for the likes of me. I get milked at least once a day, usually by that pervert Mr. Tumnus.
(Would it surprise you know that he always has a slurp of me longer teat before milks t’others? He bites a bit too.)
And don’t get me started on General Otman. You’d think a famous centaur like that would have his choice of lady centaurs, and even horses, ‘fer Christ’s sake, but he has a taste for the Jersey, if you get me meanin’.
But it’s not so much the milking and unwanted attention. It’s what happens to the young ‘uns, the male young ‘uns.
It’s not like that Christmas roast just magically appears, you see.