Elbow deep in hot soapy water sanitizing the milking equipment, the view from my kitchen window distracts me from the endless lists that direct my day and my stress levels. The late frosts of May caused many chores to be moved to June, only to be washed away by the endless rains.
July brings heat and humidity. On this day, I have a short-term list and a long-term list and a dream-of-some-sort-of miracle list, but at the moment, I can do nothing more than what I am doing … the milk “dishes” immediately follow milking every day, twice a day, rain or shine.
The Jersey emerges from the barn to enjoy a bit of cooler, less buggy grazing in the early morning. Her calf, barely a week old, joins her in the field if not in the assiduous, plodding munching and crunching that takes place as her mother, head down, chews her way through timothy and clover. Ever curious, the heifer takes a daisy stem in her mouth. It droops out of one corner like a forgotten cigar at Yalta; neither her taste buds nor her stomach is remotely ready to take on the high-fiber diet of a ruminant and her belly is round and tight from her time at her mother’s udder. She looks suspiciously at her mother, still contentedly gnawing. Really? This stuff? Why?
While the heifer is not convinced of its use as food, she can imagine all sorts of possibilities for the pasture that surrounds her. Look, Mum. See how fast I can go! The calf rockets around her mother in ever-widening circles, her tail arched straight up like a bike flag bolted to a banana seat. High-tailing, indeed … I half expect her to try to pull a wheelie. As suddenly as she started, the calf reaches some sort of invisible boundary and races back to her mother like she had reached the end of a bungee cord.
There is a nuzzle and a mutter, bovine reassurances, I suppose, and then the little one is off again. She decides to check out the social options offered by butterflies. They flutter up from the grass beneath her feet as she trots about, but do not stay low enough for her to get a good sniff. She crouches and leaps, lands and “sprongs” up and down on all fours … excess puppy juice, I guess.
For the third time, she checks to see if the fence will bite like it did yesterday and the day before. The electric snap brings her up short and she draws back as if offended. Why doesn’t that thing like me? I say a silent ‘thank you’ that the fence continues to deliver its message; the tiny heifer is not safe without the security of the perimeter wire. Her mother acknowledges the concept of the fence even when it is not on. May her daughter learn that soon!
Then she notices that her mother has apparently decided that the flies that torment her are too much to be borne, this peculiar season bringing us a perfect trifecta of black flies, mosquitoes, and “bitey flies” of many varieties and sizes. I can’t see the animals from my window once they enter the barn, but I know what happens. The little one zooms around the stall once or twice. Someone hits the “off” switch. Her legs fold up and her neck tucks back, a little brown ball in a nest of hay. Her mother noses her all over, gives her a lick or two for good measure, and settles down in the bedding. She swishes her tail and chews quietly. The calf snores gently. I rinse the last of the stainless steel and shut off the water.
Now about those lists …
This column is written by members of the Presque Isle Farmers’ Market. For more information, visit their website at https://sites.google.com/site/presqueislefarmersmarket/home.
