The mud lay in uneven patches, scattered over the sloped concrete farmyard. The smell of manure hangs thickly over the more subtle scent of tree blossom. A poorly constructed large gate of wooden planks and chicken wire that seems to flex and bow whenever it is opened or closed bars the bottom of the yard. Slightly further up and to the left there are two stables of rotting wood with a corrugated metal roofs that now house calves, bought at market to fatten up and sell on for their meat; Charolais and Friesians stand quivering on thin legs, braying gently. To the top lie the stables with the donkey and the riding horse. To the right is the pig pen, dear Cutlets, who lives in ignorant bliss of the significance of his name.