Time spent in the barn with Mom as a youngster came in handy later in life during an encounter with a ‘difficult’ cow
Whenever I watch the TV ads featuring dairy farmers, I remember the time when, as a preschooler, my mother would take me with her when she did the milking.
I liked it best of all when the days were short and the lantern I was entrusted to carry made patterns of light in the snow as we crunched along to the barn in our winter boots.
The door squawked open in the freezing temperature and we were met with a warmer current of air generated by the animals inside.
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As the livestock on the farm was gradually sold, their shelters were torn down. As a result, Flossie the cow now had to share her accommodation with about a dozen chickens and a couple of hogs in the small remaining barn. It meant we had milk and eggs and meat, and to this day I equate the bovine smell of a dairy farm with food and warmth and comfort.
Sleepy chickens murmured a protest at our intrusion, but soon resumed dozing on their roosts. The hogs in their pen grunted contentedly, too comfortably snuggled in their bedding of straw to get up and greet us.
As Mother positioned the three-legged stool alongside Flossie, I hung the lantern on a nail so she could see to aim the milk into the big galvanized pail between her knees.
Standing on the boards of the adjoining stall, I could reach over and stroke Flossie on her forehead. At one point she developed a sore on the side of her jaw to which I cautiously applied carbolic salve.
Painted on the lid of the round red and gold tin was the slogan “Good for Man and Beast,” and it certainly lived up to the claim, so much so that even today I have a tin of it in my medicine chest for soothing scrapes and cuts.
Flossie seemed to like me fussing over her and stood quietly while Mother milked.
She was probably lonely, being the only bovine on the farm. Her one excitement in summer was to chase the dog home from the pasture instead of the other way around. He was banished from the barn for fear he suffer a well-placed kick from the irate cow. Other than her dislike of the dog, Flossie was very docile.
I should have been a dairy farmer, or at least married one. The closest I came was when my husband was asked to milk a so-called cantankerous cow when the owner was called away at milking time.
Having grown up on the farm and familiar with chores, my husband readily agreed. I accompanied him to the barn and it brought me right back to my childhood. Standing in her stall was a lone cow. We had been warned that she liked to swing her manure-laden tail across the face of whoever milked her.
All the while uttering calming words as we cautiously approached her, the cow eyed us skeptically but made no reaction as my husband placed the pail under her bulging udder. Soon the milk was pinging into the pail and it was full of foaming milk.
Stroking the cow’s head, I commended her for behaving like a good bovine lady who minded her manners.
When her anxious owner came home, he was surprised to hear the whine of the cream separator. Told that his “difficult” cow had given us no trouble at all, he wondered aloud if there was such a thing as cow whisperers. I have a hunch that dairy farmers everywhere belong to that unique group.
