Milkin'

Farm life has its perks: fresh eggs, fresh air, fresh hay, fresh milk. Fresh, fresh, fresh and lots and lots of milk. We get four gallons of milk a day; two in the morning and two in the evening. Once strained, the milk goes in gallon jars and into the fridge. The next morning the cream has risen to the top and skimmed off to make butter. Fresh, creamy butter.

I suck at milkin’. Dad and mom get it done in half an hour. It always takes me at least two. I can’t figure out that whole squeeze the teat thing, so I start at the top of the teat and pull down. It takes sooooo much longer. Dad keeps showing me his technique, but I don’t get it. Good thing I love being in the barn. The smell of hay and grain, dirt, fresh milk frothing in the bucket. Not so much the manure, but that’s part of farming. You gotta take the shit with the rest. Dad would wash my mouth out if he ever heard me say shit out loud. I could never tell him that I heard it from him; I’d get a whooping and a mouth full of soap.

Even though I’m terrible at it, I love it. Once I have her in the stanchion chewing on her hay and oats, I get the 3-legged stool in place and lather up my hands with bag balm. That helps with the pulling motion, and my hands are always so soft. Bonus. I grab the galvanized bucket, place it below her udder, sit down on the stool, and skootch it around until I am in just the right position. It takes me ten minutes to fill the bucket enough that the sharp metal sound from hitting the bottom goes away. I give all the cats and dogs lined up to my left a mouthful. I aim the teat over to them and squirt their faces. They love it. They spend the next ten minutes licking that off themselves and each other.

After I get the back teats done, I move up to the front. About this time, I lay my face up against her belly; it’s as warm as towels fresh out of the dryer. The rise of her breath calms me and soothes my nerves. I listen for the sound of the milk foaming or the cats mewing for another taste. I get comfortable enough so that my guard is down. This is when she sticks her manure encrusted hoof into my bucket. Usually I can snatch the bucket out before she does it. When I’m not fast enough, I have to throw all that milk out and start over. It’s her way of telling me I am taking way to damn long.

Dad is super fast at milkin'. He gets it done in half an hour. Maybe because he goes so fast is why Bossy is always trying to stick her foot in the bucket. Ouch! Hey dude, you're squeezing too hard. Slow dooowwwnn. Is what I imagine she is thinking. When she does get her foot in the bucket, all hell breaks loose. You can hear dad screaming, "You black-hearted son-of-a-bitch," from everywhere on the property. Followed quicly by a loud thwack, or two. That's the 2x4 dad took to her back end. I feel so sorry for Bossy, but the look on dad's face as he comes into the kitchen with only half the amount of milk he should have, makes me feel sorry for dad too.

Not sorry enough to do the milkin' for him though.