When we arrived in Val di Funes, the air smelled of cut grass and sun-dried hay.
I lifted my nose — yes, this nose of mine, black and reliable — and immediately knew that these mountains had a more honest scent than most. One that clings to your fur, like a good memory.
My human, as usual, started taking the same old photos: mountains, barns, flowers, sky.
I, on the other hand, set my eyes on something far more interesting — a cow. But not just any cow. A Bruna Alpina. Tall, elegant, her coat shining as if she had just brushed it herself.
She looked at me. I looked at her. And without moving a muscle, her eyes said, “Yes, I know. I’m beautiful.”
She carried the kind of pride only true mountain ladies possess.
Not vanity — no. The calm awareness of one who lives well, breathes clean air, and produces — as she told me later in a slow, deep voice — “only good alpine milk, none of that factory stuff from the plains.”
I gave her a small bow — or rather, a respectful half-wag.
She raised her muzzle, looking toward the peaks. “From here,” she said, “when the air is clear, I can see my Austrian cousins across the border. The ones grazing on those postcard hills, their bells all polished and shiny. But we,” she added proudly, “we are the Brune of the Dolomites. Fewer words, more milk, and plenty of heart.”
I liked her immediately. She was right about everything.
I listened, nose full of the scents of dry flowers, damp soil, and mountain wind.
All around us, the meadow rang softly with cowbells, a slow, peaceful music. Some cows chewed lazily, others rested, gazing toward the Odle peaks. They all seemed to agree on one thing: life here is good — and there’s no need to hurry.
My human called me, but I was too busy watching that quiet, happy world.
Then the Bruna yawned, stretching like a cat. “Go on, little traveler,” she said. “And tell them that up here, between a moo and a cloud, life is simple and kind. But don’t tell anyone where I graze — or the whole valley will fill with selfies.”
I promised to keep her secret, though I knew that a view like that couldn’t stay hidden for long.
So we started down the path, slowly, toward the village. The sun painted everything in gold and silence.
And later, as I lay down on the grass — tired, happy, and full of mountain air — I could still hear the soft chime of the cowbells, like a dream that didn’t want to end.
I wondered if my friend Bruna, somewhere up there, was thinking of me too.