Last week when I insinuated that everyone should have a personal relation with a cow, I was slightly caught off guard; I had no idea so few actually do.
I suppose that when one grows up with something, it can tend to be overlooked as too commonplace to be of significance. In a way, I sometimes feel like that about my girls. So, last week I went out of my way to observe my cows, in the way a stranger might. I took special notice of their mannerisms, their habits, and their reactions. The result was a newfound appreciation of the little things they do, and as an added bonus, I got another article out of them.
I walk out to the barnyard. The afternoon shadows are spilling over the barn and silos. Their depth is such that I know, without the mechanical assurance of a timepiece, that it is milking time. Their angle is such that I appreciate every breath of warm air I take as I make my way out. Soon enough, winter will set in. But for now, the shadows cast an inky spell across a particular section of concrete that tells me it is intermission between the hot and cold extremes of my yearly routine.
My herd of cows, all 53 of them, are faced away from me in a tidy row. They are bellied against the feed bunk, side by side. Scarcely a hand could fit between any two of them, yet they consume their fare in a quiet, communal manner. No pushing, no shoving, not a scuffle. Just quiet.
They know, either by force of habit or depth of shadow, the significance of this moment. I scarcely call out, barely above a conversational drawl, "C'mon girls, time to go in." Their response is instantaneous and well-choreographed; we do this every day, twice a day. Fifty-three bodies turn on 53 sets of heels. Fifty-three heads hang half-mast as well-muscled shoulders propel them forward. Some run, some meander, some grab a fleeting mouthful of feed, but all turn toward the very structure that is bathing the concrete in dusk.
Perhaps a minute or two - human measurements of something called time, which has no bearing or significance to a cow - is all that is required for the company to relocate. Like a flock of birds, or school of fish, the herd gently presses itself into the holding pen. This is routine. They know what comes next. Heads up, ears perked out, their eyes follow my movement. One or two stragglers always hang back. Are they testing me?
I call out to the stragglers by name, "Roach - what the hell, get in there." "Sarah Jessica Parker, what do you think you're doing?" They wheel, sheepishly because they know. Gates are locked. As I wrap the chain, I am again confronted with the back-end of my herd, bar one. As always, on cue, Marlin comes to investigate. This cow is blind, and her routine is to come to me whilst I fasten the gate. I joke, "Why hello Marlin Blind-o, did you come to see me?" She sticks out her nose, and I reach out with my hand. I touch her nose, and she nuzzles. What a priceless connection.
I make my way to the milking parlor. No rush, no stress. They are watching, absorbing my mood. Be calm, be relaxed. My actions set the tone for the task ahead. They can sense it. No theatrics can veil it.
I open the gate, allowing 16 bodies access to the parlor; the first shift of the evening. The usual personalities dominate this first group. First, as always, is Espresso Bean. She scrambles, hooves scraping cement, and launches herself into the very first stall. The headlock slams home. Next comes Sheets, aptly named for her stark albino hue. Following suit is Lady, a cow of quiet and calm demeanor, the antithesis of Espresso Bean. Queen matriarch of the herd Jenny ambles forward, eyeing me with the knowing intelligence that only comes with age and experience. She may go into the parlor for this first shift, or she may stand to the side and let others pass. Jenny can do whatever she wants; she's earned it, and the quiet confidence in her eyes tells me she knows it, too.
Undoubtedly, Noodles will bumble forward. She eyes me with a glorious disregard for reality. No spark of intellectualism, or even self-consciousness; her ears hang crookedly, giving her an inescapable dopey appearance. But, she seems to view herself as my best friend. She approaches, demanding a quick scratch across her shoulder. She may thrust her gaping nostrils toward my head, injecting the atmosphere with long clear strings of drool. Just as quickly she disappears, on a mission to grab a stall. I'm not quite sure what life would be like without Noodles; undoubtedly far less dramatic, and admittedly less entertaining. She is my friend.
After 16 cows I shut the gate. Time to start. The machines extract the milk with the gentle pulsation of a quartz timepiece. The cows stand, the quintessential snapshot of contentment. While I work, I sense a presence. It is watching over me with incredulousness. It is judging me. It is Janice, the exceptionally overweight and jet-black cow who views herself as my ally, but only on her terms. She watches, and then disappears, only to reappear when the next batch is run in. She'll come in to get milked, but only on her terms. She may come in for the first shift, or wait until the end. One thing is clear: whatever she does is up to her.
Who says cows are mindless robots?
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
I suppose that when one grows up with something, it can tend to be overlooked as too commonplace to be of significance. In a way, I sometimes feel like that about my girls. So, last week I went out of my way to observe my cows, in the way a stranger might. I took special notice of their mannerisms, their habits, and their reactions. The result was a newfound appreciation of the little things they do, and as an added bonus, I got another article out of them.
I walk out to the barnyard. The afternoon shadows are spilling over the barn and silos. Their depth is such that I know, without the mechanical assurance of a timepiece, that it is milking time. Their angle is such that I appreciate every breath of warm air I take as I make my way out. Soon enough, winter will set in. But for now, the shadows cast an inky spell across a particular section of concrete that tells me it is intermission between the hot and cold extremes of my yearly routine.
My herd of cows, all 53 of them, are faced away from me in a tidy row. They are bellied against the feed bunk, side by side. Scarcely a hand could fit between any two of them, yet they consume their fare in a quiet, communal manner. No pushing, no shoving, not a scuffle. Just quiet.
They know, either by force of habit or depth of shadow, the significance of this moment. I scarcely call out, barely above a conversational drawl, "C'mon girls, time to go in." Their response is instantaneous and well-choreographed; we do this every day, twice a day. Fifty-three bodies turn on 53 sets of heels. Fifty-three heads hang half-mast as well-muscled shoulders propel them forward. Some run, some meander, some grab a fleeting mouthful of feed, but all turn toward the very structure that is bathing the concrete in dusk.
Perhaps a minute or two - human measurements of something called time, which has no bearing or significance to a cow - is all that is required for the company to relocate. Like a flock of birds, or school of fish, the herd gently presses itself into the holding pen. This is routine. They know what comes next. Heads up, ears perked out, their eyes follow my movement. One or two stragglers always hang back. Are they testing me?
I call out to the stragglers by name, "Roach - what the hell, get in there." "Sarah Jessica Parker, what do you think you're doing?" They wheel, sheepishly because they know. Gates are locked. As I wrap the chain, I am again confronted with the back-end of my herd, bar one. As always, on cue, Marlin comes to investigate. This cow is blind, and her routine is to come to me whilst I fasten the gate. I joke, "Why hello Marlin Blind-o, did you come to see me?" She sticks out her nose, and I reach out with my hand. I touch her nose, and she nuzzles. What a priceless connection.
I make my way to the milking parlor. No rush, no stress. They are watching, absorbing my mood. Be calm, be relaxed. My actions set the tone for the task ahead. They can sense it. No theatrics can veil it.
I open the gate, allowing 16 bodies access to the parlor; the first shift of the evening. The usual personalities dominate this first group. First, as always, is Espresso Bean. She scrambles, hooves scraping cement, and launches herself into the very first stall. The headlock slams home. Next comes Sheets, aptly named for her stark albino hue. Following suit is Lady, a cow of quiet and calm demeanor, the antithesis of Espresso Bean. Queen matriarch of the herd Jenny ambles forward, eyeing me with the knowing intelligence that only comes with age and experience. She may go into the parlor for this first shift, or she may stand to the side and let others pass. Jenny can do whatever she wants; she's earned it, and the quiet confidence in her eyes tells me she knows it, too.
Undoubtedly, Noodles will bumble forward. She eyes me with a glorious disregard for reality. No spark of intellectualism, or even self-consciousness; her ears hang crookedly, giving her an inescapable dopey appearance. But, she seems to view herself as my best friend. She approaches, demanding a quick scratch across her shoulder. She may thrust her gaping nostrils toward my head, injecting the atmosphere with long clear strings of drool. Just as quickly she disappears, on a mission to grab a stall. I'm not quite sure what life would be like without Noodles; undoubtedly far less dramatic, and admittedly less entertaining. She is my friend.
After 16 cows I shut the gate. Time to start. The machines extract the milk with the gentle pulsation of a quartz timepiece. The cows stand, the quintessential snapshot of contentment. While I work, I sense a presence. It is watching over me with incredulousness. It is judging me. It is Janice, the exceptionally overweight and jet-black cow who views herself as my ally, but only on her terms. She watches, and then disappears, only to reappear when the next batch is run in. She'll come in to get milked, but only on her terms. She may come in for the first shift, or wait until the end. One thing is clear: whatever she does is up to her.
Who says cows are mindless robots?
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
