“Remember that friend you wrote about who helped you get in touch with your inner hoochie-mamma?” my friend Julie asked. “Well, I’m going to help you get in touch with your inner bovine.”

“Does this involve me chewing cud or leaving smelly pies on a field?”

“No.”

“Does it require enduring a farmer with cold hands?”

“No,” Julie promised. “All you have to do is dress up like a cow and go to Chick-fil-A with me on Friday. It’s their annual Cow Appreciation Day. If you dress like a cow, you get a free meal.”

This wasn’t the first time that Julie, a mild-mannered mother of three, had turned into a cow. She earned a free meal by going Guernsey last year during Chick-fil-A’s first dress-like-a-cow promotion. This year, she wanted me to go, too.

According to the official press release, last year’s event-the company’s first–was a huge success. “A herd of 200 cow-spotted customers stampeded the Chick-fil-A in Olive Branch, Miss., while 60 young ‘bovines’ from a local summer camp visited the chain’s restaurant in Conway, S.C.”

But the herd was much thinner in Charleston. Only eight people last year. And this year? Just two. Yours truly and the instigator.

“Just slap on a few spots and we’ll go as Holsteins,” said the cattle prodder. “It’ll be fun.”

Looking like a fool in public and chasing after a free meal-both things at which I’m quite adept. “Count me in.”

That night, I found an old, white, hooded sweat jacket, which I covered with spots cut from a black trash bag. Then I cut large cow ears from heavy, white cardboard and stitched them onto the hood. The effect was udderly ridiculous.

“You’re not really going out in public in that?” asked my horrified daughter as I modeled the top half of my ensemble for her.

“Be nice or I’ll make one for you, too,”

My costume still needed some beefing up, but since I was unable to find a coordinating cowbell, I made a nametag instead. “Hi. My name is Patty.”

On the big day, Julie and I stood by my car in the mall’s parking building, taping on spots, then we each tucked a puffy pink glove in our waistbands to serve as the udder. I carried my obnoxious jacket until we were standing in line, then slipped it on. Hood and all.

“We have cows!” exclaimed one of the guys at the counter. Someone hurried to the back for a camera. (Oh bull. Why didn’t I think to bring mine?)

(Note to reader: The text contained in the previous set of parens was meant to be read with a sarcastic tone.)

Julie and I vogued for the camera, proudly displaying our udders as if posing for Hugh Heiffer. The shots were (don’t act surprised–you know this is coming) total beefcake.

The only downside were the cow puns, which we were unable to stop. There were complaints about bull-emic looking young women and the sad disparity between the calves and calve-nots. We were “spinning our veals,” born in the barn, and at home on the range. You know, a never-ending stream of bull-oni.

But it was so much fun that we’re already planning our costumes for next year, when we’re determined that no trash bags, construction paper or cardboard will perish in the making of our attire.

And I have no doubt that we will succeed. That Julie and I will be there again, year after year. Since she and I are, quite obviously, friends for-heiffer.

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