Another True Story
There stood Maggie in the doorway. Hesitant, she flashed those big brown beautiful cow-eyes my way. Their liquid warmth sparkled with hungry anticipation. As our eyes met an unsettled foreboding came over me. I detected a hint of hellish fiery discontent in those sanguine dark pools.
Earlier in the fall my boss had introduced several young calving heifers into the existing one hundred head Holstein herd. The purpose: acclimate them to the milking process once they had calved. They were all pretty skittish at first but adjusted, all but Maggie. She took skittish to a new level. She was always the last one into the holding pen and always last into the milking stalls. Yet the taste of grain from the feeder seemed to quell her ambivalence.
The routine was simple: get them into the milking stalls, begin feeding, drop the back-out bar behind them if necessary, and raise the stainless steel milking cluster under their udder. This allowed them to adjust to the rhythmic sucking sounds of the milkers. That was it. All the heifers had become accustom to that routine during their pregnancy, except Maggie. And now she had delivered.
On this particular day, as was her custom, she entered the doorway, looked around the barn, eyed the empty stall in front of her and waited or backed out again. Then, a few minutes before the mature cows had finished milking, she slowly walked up to the feeder. Her black and white spotted figure barely cleared the short doorway header. She placed her head in the feeder box and began eating with one eye fixed on me. As I approached, her head bolted. Hurriedly, she back out of the stall as if a bee stung her nose.
Since she had calved, she had to be milked! My teenage mind conceived a plan. As she backed out the one door, I hopped the rail on the opposite side of the barn, ducked my head to miss the header, ran up from behind and chased her back in. Once there, she began feeding peacefully. Then, as the other cows finished their milking, I returned to remove their milkers. With stealth, I dropped the back-out bar behind her as I passed. She noticed but didn’t seem to mind. I thought I was home free but I was wrong. She had a plan too.
Not wishing to startle her, I walked up beside her and gently lifted the cluster under her. As she spied me she raised her hind left leg and, with lightning speed, kicked my arm sending the cluster flying. Thankfully the vacuum pump lines saved them from hitting the floor. They hung suspended in air. But the pain in my forearm fueled my anger. She tried to back from the stall again but the back-out bar her caught her rump. Surprised, she pressed forward into the feeder box and, feeling trapped, kicked out toward me again with greater angst! This called for drastic measures.
Earlier that spring, my boss showed me how to use “the Kickers” for stubborn cantankerous bovines. By now I had become well versed in the practice. With equal speed and a boiling temper, I grabbed the vise-like tool off the wall, scooted the step-stool to the railing, climbed the steps and forced them down over her hips. The side bars fit loosely in front of her young thighs. Gripping the swivel handle, I cranked them down as tight as I could. Unfortunately, there was still free play left in them giving my adversary some unintended freedom of movement.
I climbed down and retrieved the cluster still swinging from the lines. With a flurry, I placed them on her, then whisked my arms back as she attempted to kick me again. Having an under-developed smallish udder, the teat-cups lost air and slipped down as if to fall off. Reluctantly, I reached in and lifted them back into position. All seemed to be working as she let down her milk.
As the milk flow tapered off, I reached in to remove the cups and cluster. But as I leaned in, she kicked with all her might knocking the cluster and pump out of my hands and down into the accumulated manure below. They hit with a splash sending fecal matter everywhere. Then, shifting her weight, she knocked the back-out bar out of position. Shoving herself in reverse, she slammed the back-out bar up allowing a free retreat. She retreated through the entry chute and made her escape into the holding pen.
I was exasperated! Angry, I jumped the rail, ducked my head and flew through the low doorway. In my rage I misjudged its elevation. My capped head hit the door header with full force. Golden stars appeared in a sea of black. My last vision was the wooden fence post and railing not six feet away. Losing consciousness, I lunged forward catching the top of the post. Wrapping my arms around it, I clung tight as if my life depended on it.
Maggie had won this round. I would survive to fight another day. As a comforting thought, I imagined she would probably make good steaks.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © March, 2017
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