By Michael L.
Alumbaugh, © 2016
It was a dark and dismal night; at least that’s how some
stories begin, I suppose. But mine didn’t. Actually it was just the opposite.
It was a bright and sunny mid-winter Saturday afternoon at a dairy farm. We had
received a bit of snow with icy temperatures the last couple days and this was
a nice break. Things were thawing out in the sunlight while the ground had
become a little muddy.
My boss Gene and I had worked out an agreement where
we’d trade weekends to allow one of us a bit of relief from the menial duties
of milking. Now it was my turn to do the milking and clean-up chores while he
and his family took a well-deserved hiatus.
Garbed in a stocking hat, coveralls, gloves, and
rubber boots, I entered the stockyard to open the gates leading under the
milking barn. It was no surprise that Downy was waiting at the main gate. She
was a fully grown cow my high school classmate Tony had raised from a calf and was
usually the first and friendliest of the herd, always cooperative, and a bit
playful.
Tony had shown me, when I first hired on, how to
play with her. He’d walk up to her, slap her on the rump to get her attention,
and then walk around to her front. There, he would affectionately rub her head
and ears, speak soothingly and gently, and then, firmly placing his hand on her
hornless brow, push her head down toward the ground. Her reaction was usually a
powerful thrust upward, almost as if goring some intruder in an attempt to
throw them over the barn into the next county! He would repeat the action several
times until both were satisfied. Then, he’d proceed to open the outer main gate
and walk into the interior to open the inner gate.
The inner gate was generally a precautionary measure.
If not for that gate, these restless untamed freshened heifers would be like
herding cats! Having recently calved and already being skittish, at the first
sound of the milking machine vacuum they’d kick your arm with their hind leg,
knock off their kickers, back out of the milking stall and run you ragged
trying to get them back in. It was late enough in the year that we’d pretty
much trained them to some level of sensibility.
Being the “green horn” of the bunch, I decided a bit
of “horseplay” was appropriate, so I tried my hand at the “head-game” with Downy.
As I approached, I gave her the customary slap on the rear, offered some kind
verbal greetings while rubbing her ears and, then, forcefully pushed her head
down toward the ground. In her inimitable fashion, she retorted soundly, thus
begging for a sterner, more aggressive response from me. We exchanged glances
and gentle blows, each one getting a little less response from the other until,
apparently, we’d both had enough.
By now the herd had gathered. Looking over the black
and white cow-ography, I returned to the main gate, swung it open wide allowing
her and the rest of the herd to enter the covered enclosure. The concrete was
still covered with septic swill from that mornings milking. Entering the barn,
I sloshed my way toward the inner gate. Downy followed suit accompanied by the
sounds of her sluggish clomping hooves as they slogged through the sludge.
About halfway to my destination, unaware that Downy
had caught up with me, I received a bold and brash surprise: she had one more butt
left in her and I was the deserving recipient. In playful abandon, and unobstructed
strength, she rammed her crown into the lower region of my posterior, knocking
my legs out from under me, and lifting me heavenward a few inches. As I came
down, my heels hit the slick surface and, not finding a footing, I landed flat
on my back, skidding to a lengthy halt several feet into the inner sanctum. Laying
there stunned and supine, I gazed upward into the rafters. Needless to say,
indeed, this boy got his backside basted in barnyard bovine byproducts in that
septic swamp!
My entire hind side, from stocking hat to boot
heels, was saturated in liquid cow-pies. Soaked, slipping, sliding and
attempting to regain my posture, as well as composure, I offered a backward glance
to my playful opponent. No! Could it be possible? I looked again but still . .
. I seemed to denote a mischievous glint in the eye of that aged heckling
heifer. If I didn’t know better I would have sworn she derived some sense of
pleasure from my pratfall. I wondered.
Uncomfortably, the rest of the evenings milking went
unhampered and routine. There were eighty-five udders in and eighty-five out. Though
soaked in putrid poop, I had managed. The milking clusters, tank and tubes were
washed and ready for the morning milking. Now for the drive home . . . but how?
I was a mess.
My ’51 Ford coupe, which I’d paid $50 dollars for,
probably already stunk from previous drives home so there’d be little loss. Fortunately,
I found an old cloth, covered the seat and drove the eight miles back to town.
The golden glow of lights through the window
curtains offered a wonderfully warm welcoming and hopeful appeal as I entered
the driveway. It had been such a miserably uncomfortable evening, but now I was
home. As I reached for the back door knob, to my surprise, the door suddenly
swung open!
It was my older sister. She was exiting to go to some
social function. The action of the door ushered in the beneficent aroma which permeated
and now preceded me. “Peeeeooowweeee!” she shouted, “You’re not coming in
here!” and slammed the door in my face. A few moments later my mother showed
up. Her only recourse was a chilling one: have me strip outside in the dusk
light and hand over my soiled clothes, while my sister found a different escape
route. I ended up entering the house pretty close to buck naked.
To this day, I can still see the glint in Downy’s
eye and I still wonder.
