Of Milk Cows

Just reminiscing here.......

I was born in the early 60's so I didn't have to milk cows much. When I was old enough to be given this as one of my chores, it was just a matter of a couple of years that milking gave way to buying milk, butter, cheese and so forth, in the store.

It was no longer cost effective, and the expense of time could no longer be afforded either.

I should say the chickens were gone about the same time, for a different reason.

No self respecting ranch wife would deal with the day to day of chickens when the supermarket was so much cleaner. I liked that the eggs were always so white and clean.

I also liked the milk in the big gallon cartons. None of that yellow crap on the surface that always had to be removed or, better yet, disguised with Nestle Quick.

 

When my family began buying this way, Juliet was sent to slaughter. There were no tears in my eyes and in fact I was clapping the dirt off my hands in a 'job well done' fashion as she was disappearing up the long driveway in an Independent Meat truck. Goodbye you miserable old hag.

 

This is how I remember the daily milking.

 

I can clearly recall rising with a natural alarm in my head, at the very moment the black began it's change to grey. Tugging on my freezing jeans, and pulling on a sweatshirt, so cold my breath hung in the air in crystals. Stumbling down the stairs, now half awake, the blast of warmth as the door to the dining room swings open. We kept the door to the stairs closed at night, or all the heat would escape thru the roof of the drafty old ranch house.

I drank cold orange juice before going out to do my chores. It somehow made me feel warmer.

My boots, put on by the big wood stove where they stayed at night, were still warm on my feet as I stepped outside into the crisp morning. It is below 10 degrees.

I can tell this as I walk to the pickup, because my nose is starting to run and the snot is freezing in my nostrils. It only does this when it is 10 or colder, I know.

The old Ford 4x4 grumbles as I crank it over, my teeth chattering, my hands digging for gloves and Copenhagen in the jockey box. Once I have the old v8 running smoothly, I pull the throttle out about half, waiting on the heater.

I take a pinch and pull the gloves on before grabbing the steering wheel and easing Bertha the B***h out of the barnyard and down to the left, down to the corner of the feedlot. There is a watering trough there and I slow the pickup down to a crawl before bumping into it, attempting to bust the 3 inch thick ice. As usual, this does not work, and the big slab of ice simply sloshes around in the  trough.

Muttering my favorite expletives, I climb out and grab the mall from the back and proceed to break the ice up, manually. I travel 5 miles up the road, counting head as I go, and repeat the ice breaking at another place.

Returning to the barn, I grab the bucket and my club and head out to do the milking.

As I round the barn I look to see where Juliet is at. This is important, for she is a Phsycow.

If she is merely wandering around in the corral or munching the hay that has been given to her by my Grandad earlier, I am in for an easy 15 minute or less job.

If she is, as she is about half the time, standing in the corner of the lot, with her nose in the corner and her left eye wide and on me as I approach the gate, I am in for a beating.

On this day, she is in the corner and I tighten my grip on my persuader as I move to her flank. She bolts away, stomping thru the s**t, and then turning on me and charging. I stand my ground and deal her a good blow to the rump as I jump aside and she passes.

After a minute or two of this fun, my face is hot and my cold nose feels 3 times its size, but I have her in the barn. Luckily, she steers into the milking stall, and I slam the door and throw the bolt.

Juliet is upset now and begins jumping around and kicking. I wait patiently until she stops for a breather, smiling at the success of the new gate latch I had made for just this occasion, a big metal one, holding nicely.

I carefully place the bucket below her tits, and pretend to sit on the stool. My ploy works and she begins to kick her left leg spasmodically as I step out of the way. Her foot flailing in the air, she realizes she has been rooked and throws another tantrum, as I beat her about the head and neck with my club. Lovely Juliet responds by kicking all the harder and shitting all over the stall. Wearily, I grab the hose and clean her off, turning on the spaceheater, so she won't ice up, as I return for subsequent rounds.

 

Finally, after a half hour of great exercise I walk to the house with a brimming bucket, steaming in the morning chill, and Juliet casually wanders back to her hay. As I walk I am humming a tune. Onto the back porch I can smell coffee and the venison backstrap frying. It is more precious in memory, I suppose, than it was in life.

 

I was talking to my Mom about this story one time, and she told me when she was young, canned milk was once very popular and put a lot of family milk cows out of business. She told me of a song she remembered from her childhood that I thought was cool. I think these are the right words, correct me if I am wrong:

 

"Borden is the milk I know,

No tits to pull,

No s**t to throw."

 

 

Author's Note

I know, I know, what right do I have to be beating on the cow like that?
Hey, you weren't there and besides, what do you know about psychotic milk cows anyway? Really, I was not trying to hurt her, only tenderizing the meat for when I would eat her.

Reviews

[E.H. Monroe]

Firstly, I must say good sir that I need more calluses and workers grip to even read this thing. I am not man enough to even think about the dips and flows of fields that are tended by man. I’m not even man enough to be the guy’s wife. I can possibly, be the cow.

With that said…


I can clearly recall rising with a natural alarm in my head, at the very moment the black began it's change to grey.-f*****g sunrise of such bleak colors shows that real workers are up before the sunrise.

Snot in nostrils and telling the temperature in such a fashion goes beyond it was cold. That’s real description and visual that I want to see in most movies.

Bertha the b***h…so you drive my aunt around your farm? Ho ho

A psyhcow? Oh I almost wanted her to round the corner with a bandana on and challenge you to a good ol fashion hand to hoof tied knife fight.

The idea of taking the morning walk, a real piece of American exersize. No weightlifting just crushing hands and flannel. The ending kicks the a*s of the whole thing. You can easily continue this. The retelling of farm life needs an interesting steer toward interest and this is the giver.

[Eagle Cruagh]

Tony, this damn computer don`t like stories about
cow s**t and the cold. I have tried twice to review
your story and it kicks out on me each time.
So, I`ll just have to say this is one helluva good tale of
milk`n time on the ranch. It brings back a lot of memories
of cold and cow manure. Thanks Tony.
----- Eagle Cruagh

[Crowley]

I hated it when the animals would get up to their fuckery (selenes word not mind, and I so love it) I had a rooster that wanted to do battle every morning when I would feed the chickens, I forgot about him one day, bent to pet a baby goat and he spurred me in the a*s a half an inch deep. Remind me to tell you the rest of the story later....talk about amimal cruelty the little b*****d. The ice breaking thing so sucked, our horse trough was a bathtub and when it got too frozen up, the hatchet was the tool of the day, oh how I hated that, looking back, probably not that bad but who can tell that when their twelve. As you can see, I loved this, brought back some good memories and made me laugh. Farm stories are the best, I got a million as I am sure you do too. Nice job.

[Closedown]

I'm suddenly really glad I'm lactose intolerant... And no longer being chased through fields twice a week... Have you ever seen cows and sheep tag team? It's pure terror.

[Michael X]

wow, i havent read something like this in a long time,
structured brilliantly, this is all about expressing your writing ability,
a real and sentimental reading experience

[luciddreamer]

Thanks for your memories...very entertaining

[Desert Dreamer]

Very entertaining story...my experience with milk cows is that they want to be milked, but I never milked them myself only visited family and friends farms as a child, watching the cows get milked. I thought these cows were very happy and had lots of fields to wander, not the case for most milk cows these days whose life is a sad one. As for the stick, I understand...my parents raise cows and sometimes the friendly young ones would decide to play, and I am just too small to play with a young bull with horns...I carried a stick, too. I wonder if this cow had a bad experience with being milked and was nervous.

[Samuel Dickens]

I understand--I punched a few farm animals myself long ago. I'm not proud of it, but that was how things were done back then. (maybe still?)
It was a b***h, I know, but aren't you glad you can tell these interesting, amusing stories about it now?

[Manyfacets]

A devils advocate piece; well what do you know about that? This will yank the chains of all the animal lovers for sure. Ha! I loved this story, it's entertaining, imbuing and shows the nature of time. My Aunt Red had a psychotic milk cow but that's in one of my stories (not posted yet though) Ha...Smiles to you. M.

[StoryTailor]

*jaw drops*
I read this, because I promised I'd review two of your stories. And the last one I read was too short to count as one! (it wouldn't be fair) Poor Poor cow. You terrible monster!
HAhahahaha! Nawn. Just kidding, it was a joke! Don't beat me upside the head with a brick!

It was fun to read. Very fun. So good job. Again.