How do you milk an oat?

Vanessa Barton dreamed of seeing her father who was in the military. It had been almost a year. It was the only thing that she wanted this year. She was at airport but didn’t see him. “Where is he” she asked.

Vanessa stood on tiptoes peering around heads taller than she. Finally! Her father emerged from the gate. She didn’t rush forward though. She barely recognized him and didn’t know what to think. What happened this past year? What did the Army do to him?

Well quite a lot. He rolled forward on his wheelchair, clutching a jug of milk. “Hello, Vanessa.” “Daddy!” she squealed, rushing towards him, “You’re back!” “Aye,” he wiped a tear from his eye, “I’m back from Afghanistan.” “You got the milk… but at what cost?” “An arm and a leg.”

“So, um, Daddy? I strongly prefer oat milk now.” she said, looking down. “I’ve been through hell to get you this pasteurized 2% cow’s milk”, he said. “I nearly died.” They both sighed, in a way that suggested neither expected the other to give any slack.

A chickadee chittered outside. Little did the two know that it had been watching them. Even less did the father & daughter know that the bird was a fairy once spurned by the father's grandpa. She had cursed him, "For 10 generations may your family lose limbs & lactose tolerance!"

As the curse went down from limb to limb. He grows tired and goes to sleep, the next day he finds himself limbless, but did not lose his lactose intolerance, as he sat there with no limbs, and a gurgling stomach asking for a bathroom

Finally, the door opened and the poor soul was picked up, taken into the bathroom, and provided digestive relief. When he finished, he struggled to speak—no one could hear him at first. Then, eventually, the words passed through his colorless lips: “oat milk from now on please.”