Daisy had been a perfect angel. Twice a day, I brought her mother-in-a-bucket milk and brushed her often with an old scrub brush. She pranced around after like a frisky colt, smelling of warm milk and head butting me with her wet pink snout. Then, with an hour’s warning, we were waving each other goodbye. A jolly farmer had swung by in a truck with her new mother, #37. It troubled me, this lack of name for her new guardian, but at least they were from the same race. It’s un-PC to say, but racially similar adoptive families do have a better chance of success. I made the farmer promise to call Daisy by her proper name. And we shook on it.
It seemed a good time for me to wave goodbye, too. It was nearing the end of the season. The grass was nibbled smooth as a putting green. Milk production had gone from 12 cans to less than four a day. Five of the original 18 cows had been put out to pasture to prepare for calving. And I’d been having conversations with four-legged creatures and the occasional bunch of wildflowers for more than two months -- mushroom season was upon us, and what could we possibly have to talk about? Oh, and I’d run out knitting wool.
I dropped a dress size. I learned how smart a cow really is (not terribly, but all the more loveable for it). And I’d watched more sunrises than in my entire life. Now it’s time to get back to star-gazing, city life, and catch up on loads of crap TV. I enjoyed my life as a bovine au pair immensely and recommend you try. If you hurry, I know a nice spot…
With love and grass stains