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| Okay. Call it what you want . . . |
Cows.
You see them in the fields. Standing. Eating. Wandering
about. Staring contentedly at nothing.
They are in the barns. Being milked. Standing. Eating.
Wandering about. Staring contentedly at nothing.
They care for little calves. Nursing. Licking. Bellowing. Giving
the occasional kick. Ignoring.
You know them as ‘meat’, ‘milk’, ‘cheese’, ‘cream’.
We know them as aggravating, funny, stupid, perverse, blind,
ornery and endlessly hungry.
And the reason we get out of bed in the morning.
We’ve called them cows, dogies, critters, some terms
unprintable here.
And our bread and butter.
Our family raised Polled Herefords.
A breed known for its gentle disposition.
And beef production.
We also kept one ‘milk’ cow. Usually Holstein.
A breed known for their milk production.
Near the Stringam spread was a herd of Jersey cows.
Also known for their high dairy output.
And gentle disposition.
Dad pointed them out as we drove past. “See. Diane! Those
are Jersey cows! They give milk!”
Four-year-old Diane, nose pressed against the car window, “Oooo!”
I will admit that, occasionally, things got turned around in
my little girl mind . . .
The next time we drove past that particular field, I pointed
excitedly to the quiet animals out grazing. “Ooo! Daddy! Look! It’s those juicy cows!”
I was right.
