"Why, every one as they like; as the good woman said when she kissed her cow." - Rabelais

The elderly woman, Elara, stood in the heart of the bustling market square, a figure seemingly at odds with the vibrant tapestry of life swirling around her. Her weathered hands, knotted with the memories of a lifetime spent toiling, felt the rough hide of her cow, Beatrice, warm beneath her touch. Around them, the cacophony of bartering traders and boisterous children filled the air, a symphony of human interaction that often overwhelmed Elara. Today, however, a strange peace settled over her.

She smiled, a network of fine lines crinkling around her eyes, as Beatrice nudged her hand with a gentle headbutt, lowing softly. It had been a particularly fruitful season, and Beatrice, her loyal companion for twelve years, had yielded a bounty of creamy milk. The potential buyers crowded around, drawn by the promise of fresh, local dairy, but Elara paid them no mind. Their eager gazes and eager pleas for the best price meant little to her today. She had a different kind of transaction in mind, one that transcended the mundane exchange of goods for currency.

"Why, every one as they like," Elara muttered, her voice a raspy whisper lost in the general clamor. The words, etched into her memory from a distant childhood, resonated with a newfound clarity. They echoed the philosophy that guided her, a philosophy shaped by a life lived amidst the ceaseless churn of life and death, joy and sorrow, abundance and scarcity.

To her, the world was not a set of economic equations or a rigid social hierarchy. It was a canvas, vast and ever-changing, where each individual, human or animal, sought their own path, their own meaning. She had learned to find contentment not in material possessions or societal approval, but in the quiet, profound connections she forged.

She looked at Beatrice, her gaze lingering on the cow's soft eyes, and her resolve solidified. Beatrice would not be sold, not to the highest bidder, not to the man with the polished shoes and slick tongue offering the most gold. Beatrice would remain, her faithful companion, her family.

She saw the questioning look on the faces of the assembled crowd, the thinly veiled disapproval they felt for her seeming defiance of the market's logic. She didn't care. Their eyes sought profit, their minds fixated on the tangible. Elara's eyes sought something more elusive, something beyond the reach of numbers and exchange.

With a gentle pat on Beatrice's flank, she turned away, leading the cow out of the square, back to the quiet sanctuary of their farm. The world might clamor for profit and progress, but Elara knew that true wealth lay in the bonds of love, in the shared silence of a sunrise, in the quiet gratitude of a gentle moo.