I once gave a speech to my 6th grade class about one of my classmates. I said that he had big brown cow eyes. My peers laughed, but I felt that no other description could have been more appropriate. Neither did I feel that such a description was in any way derogatory or unnatural. I associated cattle’s and Jesse’s eyes with warmth, largeness, and comfort.
Cattle have been a part of my life since day one. Dad was forever rumbling in and out of our driveway to do chores. There were always fences to fix or raise, cattle to feed, and milking to be done. He would leave early, before we left for school, then after school, he would stop at home for a cup of coffee before rumbling back down the driveway to start chores again.
At night, Mom would send me to bed, but I would fight sleep, waiting for the rumble of his truck and the creak of the steps. Then I’d sneak into the steamy bathroom and chatter away while he bathed. Time with him was a rare commodity.
On days when I did not have school I got to go with. The truck would feel so warm after the brisk morning air. Cans always rattled against one another on the floor and the cab smelled of Dad’s shitty boots and the cinnamon redhots he sucked on and shared. I liked the smell because it brought the same sensations that the Barn did—the sensations of warmth and safety, like when your mom wraps you in a blanket and holds you tight.
The barn glowed softly in the winters. Outside was dark and cold, brittle, and icily still. But in the barn the cattle’s heat warmed the air and their soft lowing filled the air. Oldies rock or country from the ancient radio mixes with the methodical chugging of the gutter. Shit plopped onto the cement and I would scrape the splatters into the gutter. White powder had to be sprinkled onto the still-wet surface because it is far too easy to slip on the such wet spots. Shit and sterility go hand in hand in a dairy barn.
In the center aisle there was a shit-stained counsel full of the cloths and chemicals Dad used to sterilize the teats before hooking up the tubular sucking milkers. The milk room was full of shiny sterile steel, but the barn was a different story. You could keep the teats and equipment clean, and scrape all the shit you want, but there is no way to keep the shit from staining, flies from hovering, or alpha from sticking.
The calves lived in little shit-filled stalls. Their feet would sink into it and when I came with milk buckets to feed them, they would slide about clambering to be first. They slobbered and rammed, as if starving, thrusting the steel pans into my hip until I had to knock them on the head. The angle of the pail had to be just right, otherwise they could not get any milk or would only suck up air bubbles through the rubber teats.
Sometimes, my cousin would spray me or a cat with a warm stream of milk from a cow’s udder. Other times, she would crawl onto one of the cow’s broad bristly back. I would gaze up at her from the ground, jealous. Sometimes, Dad would set me atop of one. My legs had to spread impossibly wide to straddle the warm back and when the cow moved its head back and forth munching its hay and slurping water, I could feel its bony spine, the massive power of the gentle beast.
I named these massive creatures but could never keep them straight. So many black and white spots. Did Blacky have the ring around one eye and a white tail, or was that Sukie? My dad called them all Bessy. He would yell “Hey Bessy, Bessy, Bessy” And they would all respond to his summons as if they understood.
The cows would rush to the barn in a powerful mass of hooves and spots. They were all anxious for food and shelter from the cold. I thought of the barn as a safe haven for the cows too. Cattle, specifically dairy cattle, will forever conjure memories of my youth, home, and warmth.