Every morning, as the herd climbed up the slope to the grassy hillside to feed, Eunice (middle, skylined) would burst out with at best a fair version of “The hills are alive . . .” even though everyone was sick to death of that song, sung by anyone.  Why couldn’t she change up to  “Do You Know The Way To San Jose?,” “Satisfaction,” “Light My Fire”, “I’ve Got You Babe”, “Viva Las Vegas”, or even “I Was Born This Way”, or “The Hokey Pokey”–anything but “The Hills Are Alive . . .?”