Gramsci, she thought to herself - since it remained difficult to think to anyone else - would make the perfect lover, were it not for his size. (see "more", below... Parental guidance advised, SVLN).
"Carnivorous," she answered slowly, "because although I was once herbivorous, I became anaemic and my doctor advised me to review my diet. It's not very PC for a cow to be carnivorous, I know," she shrugged, "but then neither am I."
"And cow?" Gramsci asked.
"Cows, as you know," she snorted, "are clothed in 100% genuine leather. Nothing artificial at all. Although that means that we're not too happy out in the rain - water is not good for leather, unless you Dubbin it regularly, and who's got the time to do that nowadays?
"Although reputed to have four stomachs, it's really just one," she added, "but no one has to know that until after you leave the restaurant. Otherwise they might mistake you for a pig, when you tuck into that last bowl of cassata.
"And cows can take a lot of bull!"
Gramsci had to agree that this last factor was highly advantageous in Carnivorous Cow's working environment.
His deadly reputation was well-justified.
He expected his head to be taken off after sex, irrespective of his performance.
He expected his body to be devoured.
No chance, then, of him hanging around until the morning and expecting breakfast.
No chance, either, of his wanting to set up web together, or hatch a clutch of tiny ones.
He simply looked forward as far as the moment of passion itself, and no further. Carnivorous Cow couldn't think of anything more attractive in a lover... aside from the small matter, if you'll forgive the pun, of size.. .