I have a terrible image in my mind of a cow going to slaughter. There's not a lot of fight in them. Pigs, they'd squeal and thrash around. They'd fight. It's almost as if cows don't know they have a choice. Not that they don't panic, but they do so in a quiet way.
I would assign every lie a color: yellow when they were innocent, pale blue when they sailed over you like the sky, red because I knew they drew blood. And then there was the black lie. That's the worst of all. A black lie was when I told you the truth.