Just for fun

Here is part of a Farm Side column, which ran back in January of 2001. It is still true as far as I can tell. I have never done this before, but I thought that it might be fun.

There’s One in Every Barn. Light Foot Lucy, I mean. She’s a six or seven year old cow who has parked in the same stall and been milked twice a day every day, 305 or more days a year since she was two years old. But just try walking into her stall without announcing your presence with a “Hey, girl” or, “Easy girl”. She will jet propel you into the next decade on the end of her hoof. It will hurt. It doesn’t matter if you just stepped out from beside her after putting the milker on her next stall neighbor. Step back in beside her without announcing yourself and–wham- you’re outta there. She also has very ticklish teats and gives a tap dancing demo every time you prep her. Chances are she’s allergic to the stable shovel too and indicates her displeasure by kicking it whenever you scrape off behind her. However, animals like her invariably give too much milk for you want to sell them and they always have their yearly calf, so they linger forever. Everybody on the farm is relieved when they take their yearly “dry period” vacation. Hey, cows get six weeks off every year-it’s written right in their contract. I wish I had someone negotiating a deal like that for me.
Then there’s Feed Flinging Frieda. Frieda is always another high producer. At least she doesn’t kick. Instead she eats continuously and always has an itchy backside. Since she is so busy filling her face, she has no time to reach around and lick her itchy spots. So she throws food at them. Only a cow would imagine that chucking a mouthful of haylage on her back would alleviate that troublesome itch.
Our current flinger’s name is Silverwing. You can spot her from the other end of the aisle. First of all, there is nearly always a cloud of feed seething behind her as she grabs a bite, swings her head at her back and then grabs another bite. If you miss that part of the performance, the four-inch pile of hay on her rump is a dead give away. She looks like a walking haystack. Her manger is always bare first, since most of her dinner is on her back, in the gutter or down your neck. We just love her.

Another favorite of mine is Cathy Crowder. Cows of her persuasion stand politely against the far side of their stall to let you in to work. They then wait until you’re bent over prepping their neighbor to discover a succulent nibble of feed in the manger on the other side. They forget all about your presence, swing their massive ribs or rump against you, squashing your tender anatomy onto the stall divider. If you squeal, slap at them or (heaven forbid) swear emphatically, they panic and jump up and down. After all, they totally forgot that you were there, so your reaction comes as a complete surprise. You haven’t lived until you have been crushed by a bouncing creature that weighs over half a ton. If you’re really stupid like I am and always react by swearing or slapping, you learn to crawl through the front of the stall into the manger real well. Sure can’t get out the back. It must be quite a treat to see a fat, ungainly woman squirt out from between the stalls like toothpaste out of a stepped on tube. Nobody dares to laugh though. They know Mommy better than that.
The Grass is Greener Gertie is only a problem in the summer. There could be grass up to her elbows, a feed wagon full of green chop, a cool, clear pond and several shade trees available right there in the pasture for her lounging and feeding pleasure. She would still rather find her way over, under, around or through the fence to find something unique to eat. Her great, great grandmother is undoubtedly responsible for the old saying.
Then there’s Plain Old Polly. She’s not an All American, nor does she give one hundred pounds a day. Day in and day out she moves over, stands still, renders up her daily portion of the milk check, and stays clean - on the right side of the fence no less. When the 4-H leader or the guy from the bull stud strolls through the barn, looking for stars of the show ring, she is passed unnoticed. The vet doesn’t pick her our as too fat or two thin. She never gets mastitis or gets loose in the stable at night to run around stomping calves and gobbling up all the grain. Every year she has a calf, often a heifer, who grows up and follows the same path. I wish we had a hundred like her. Actually, most of the cows in the barn fall into the Plain Old Polly class, but rest assured it’s the Frieda’s and the Lucy’s and the Cathy’s and the Gertie’s that get your attention.