Sylvia is a cow with confidence. Not the quiet, modest kind, but the loud, all-encompassing self-assurance that starts at her hooves and reaches somewhere above her horns. Thanks to a carefully balanced cocktail of hormones, she exists in a permanent state of lightly tipsy cheerfulness. Not drunk — no, more like just a little too enthusiastic about everything life throws her way.

Her udder is her crown jewel. Always taut, strikingly polished, and shamelessly presented to anyone daring enough to come near the pasture. Walkers unconsciously slow their pace, cyclists take a second look, and even the mailman has learned to keep his gaze professionally neutral. Sylvia notices it all — and she enjoys every second.

Rumor has it she’s had her udder lifted. Sylvia herself laughs off these stories, calling it “natural tension from positive energy,” but no one denies that her appearance has reached almost iconic status. Some animals even swear she strikes a pose the moment she hears footsteps.

Sylvia is no foolish cow. She knows exactly what she’s doing, when she’s doing it, and for whom. She has no shame, but she does have timing. When Kjelt is around, she plays her role with extra flair. A subtle twist here, a slightly lingering gaze there. And when he walks away, she’s left with a satisfied smile that says: mission accomplished.

But don’t be mistaken: beneath all that wily bravado lies a sharp instinct. Sylvia knows how the farm works — who’s watching, who’s talking, and who’s silent. She wields her reputation the way others use strength or speed. It’s her talent — and she carries it with pride.