Musing over a Milking Mishap

I realized something today: cows are masters of passive-aggressive behavior. Maybe that’s why when they are overtly aggressive, it’s so scary – it’s just uncharacteristic. Thankfully, we haven’t had to deal with much of that. But managing a persnickety dairy cow has given me plenty of experience with the varied ways they can express their displeasure.

This morning, Basil had it in for me. It has already been established that she prefers to be milked by Nathan, to the point where if he is anywhere in the vicinity and I am milking, she will move and shift to make it impossible for me to do so. She grudgingly allows me to milk her once a week. Today, though, he was nowhere in sight – completely out of the state, as a matter of fact. Maybe she disapproved of being made to wait til 9:15 to be milked after Mass. Maybe the amount of peas in the treat bucket didn’t suit her. Maybe she didn’t want to be milked in the sun, or felt that her dignity was violated by being milked out in the open in front of the beef herd. Whatever the reason, I hadn’t even gotten the back quarters milked out when she up and walked away! When I tried to follow her, she bellowed at me and lowered her head.

I have enough trouble teaching the kids to be respectful to me. I was not about to take this from a cow – a dumb animal! I mooed right back at her, stomped my foot (which really didn’t add much emphasis due to the inches-deep muck) and walked off.

Though she didn’t deserve it, I got some more peas in the bucket (just a handful – enough to tempt her back to me) and the halter rope. She was going to learn her place. On the way, I picked some fresh clover to add to the bucket to sweeten the deal.

She eyed me suspiciously when I came back, but eventually her baser instincts prevailed and I was able to hook her up to the fence. Ah, now that’s what I expect. Nice smooth milking, no attempt to hold back the milk (which is habitual for her when I’m milking). I had just gotten another half gallon out when – you guessed it – she put her foot in the bucket. I haven’t had that happen in ages! I think she was trying to make a point.

Chagrined (to put it lightly), I dumped the bucket, cleaned it, and went back at it. I told her in no uncertain terms that I was going to milk her out, no matter what she tried to do.

“You are stuck here, and we’re going to finish up! What, do you prefer mastitis?”

A few minutes later, up went the tail — thankfully, my reflexes took over and saved the milk from a shower of pungent urine. She took her time emptying her bladder, and gave me a sideways glance with her eyes narrowed, as if to say “You may get your way, but you’ll never have my respect.”

Milking cows ought not to have the luxury of being picky about who milks them. “How dare she,” I fumed. But in the back of my mind, I imagined her thinking as she proudly trotted off, “How dare that woman make me wait for my treat! Does she think I’m here at her convenience, to take my milk at any hour? What a gross sense of entitlement! I hope I taught her a thing or two.”

And maybe – just maybe – she did.