I started out talking about pets...but I also mean all the farm animals that I interacted with in my childhood and teenager years, too. Some of our cows had vivid personalities. Gyp: a Guernsey who had an obsession with being the first cow into the milking barn each night. She'd plow through the herd, knocking over any inattentive humans in her determination to step through the door before any other animals did. Sheesh....her stall was # 5 or #6, I forget. No, we humans did not assign the stalls. The cow hierarchy did that. Goldie and Jewel were in #1 and #2. They were the purebred Guernseys my dad and mom brought over as calves from central Wyoming when they moved to our farm in 1953. I was 10 days old. They'd been working on a big dairy farm in Kinnear (near Riverton) and decided that it was too far from "home"--Star Valley. So, they packed up their three girls and returned to their home town and started a little farm of their own. Those two calves were the basis of their herd. They acquired some Jerseys, and a couple of Holsteins, and then my dad loved adding other breeds like Brown Swiss, milking shorthorn, and once we had a red Holstein, I think.
Anyway, contrary to any perception one might have of docile dairy animals, our milk cows had a complex social order. There were the head honchos and their best buddies, and then there were the lesser, not-as-cool cows. It was weird to learn about, but vital, because you did a lot better when you knew what the Cow Rules were. They are big, and generally calm, but you cannot win if you decided to mess up the "correct order" of events in a cow's daily schedule.
One of these cows was a Jersey named Malice. My sister, just 15 months younger than me, had made a pet out of her. I don't recall the beginnings of this amazing friendship. But it was true blue. Malice had a weird mannerism of letting her tongue flop out of the side of her mouth when she was hanging around, sometimes during cud chewing. Sometimes, it also was a greeting to my sister. And Malice had to be acknowledged, petted, and admired before she would go into the barn. If my sister was holding her cat (another weirdo) when Malice approached for loving, then the cow would shove the cat out of her arms to the ground, and thrust her own cowy head into my sister's grasp. Malice liked to lick my sister's head when she sat and milked her each night. They call an uncontrolled swirl of hair a "cowlick" because, not even Gorilla Snot hair gel can match the power of cow saliva to push one's hair into a position that can only be undone in the shower with shampoo. But you KNOW you are loved when your pet cow licks the side of your head while you milk her.
Our barn cats were pretty fabulous, too. They kept the mice population under control in the grain storage area, and we treated them with warm, foamy milk each night for supper and each morning for breakfast. And they were a teensy bit spoiled, I believe, because when the foam had melted, and the milk in their little pan was cooled off, they would merely sniff at it, and walk away. By then, it was only good enough for the dog. We had a large family of barn cats. They all had crazy names, and interesting personalities to go with it.
And none of them would have ever allowed us to carry them into the house. They were BARN cats, and they only allowed human interaction during milking time. Hug and pet them at that time, the rest of the day, leave them alone.
We had several dogs on our farm, too. The first one I remember was just called Dog. I have no idea his breed, he was large, black and brown, with flopped over ears, and a big bushy tail. He supervised EVERYTHING. He helped round up the milk cows each morning and evening. He followed us around while we hauled hay. He was at my dad's heels as he did all the stuff I never knew about on the farm. Dog was our loyal friend. One day, he disappeared and my dad went out in the truck after 12 hours to look for him. Apparently, Dog had followed the pickup truck part way up the highway, as he often did, but when he turned back to go home, he had been struck by a vehicle. My dad found him lying in the road ditch, alive, but unable to move his hind-quarters. Dog was very excited to be rescued. We fed him, and petted him, and laid him on the straw in the central part of the barn, where the burlap bags of cow grain were stored. Each day, my dad would pick him up and carry him out into the sunshine, so he could lie just in front of the barn and survey his kingdom.
One evening, there was a newborn calf in the center place, because that is where they went after the first 24 hours with their mothers. Then, we fed them their mother's milk for a couple of months, in a bucket, because she was producing far more than one calf could consume. Well, as we brought the cows into the barnyard for the evening's milking, the new mother went over to the doors, behind which she could smell her new baby. The mother cow began to moo to her infant. Remember stupid Gyp from the previous paragraph? Well, another of her weird quirks was claiming every new calf as her own, so she, too, pushed up against the real mother so that Gyp could bawl piteously also, at the baby on the other side of the center doors. Unfortunately, the two cows were now standing right next to the disabled dog. He barked at them, and growled, in a warning to watch out, I guess. But dopey Gyp took it into her head to get aggressive right back. She put her head down, and started to butt and maul our poor, crippled Dog. He howled and barked, and squirmed around. I could see this happening and so I grabbed a shovel and ran over to chase away the aggressor cow. I yelled and waved and pounded her, and my sister and little brother grabbed Dog and pulled him away. My mother, hearing the commotion, had run out of the house with the broom in her hand to help us do whatever it was we needed done. This whole episode lasted fewer than a couple of minutes, but it really got the whole barnyard stirred up good! Seriously, Gyp was not my favorite cow.
Sometime later, a few days, a few weeks, I forget, but we accidentally dropped Dog one evening as we picked him up to carry him back inside after the milking was finished. He cried, and we were so sorry, and petted and loved him up. But---the next morning when we went to the barn to greet him and then go out to get the cows for the morning milking---he was up on all fours, tail wagging, and whimpering to be let out to go get those dumb cows with us! I guess whatever structural defect had been done by the original injury, was cured by our dropping him the night before! It was weird...But the best part was when we went out for the cows. By this time, weeks and weeks with no dog, they'd become very blase about our efforts to nudge them out of the feed mangers and down from the pasture edges to go to the barn. At first, I'd whistle for the dog, knowing he couldn't come, but the cows didn't know that. They'd look around and step lively toward the gate, not wanting to get a nip on the ankle. But about a week into Dog's injury, the cows had figured it out, and they no longer fell for the "whistle" or any other dog-related threat. But that morning! When we went out to their pasture, and I called out, "Get 'em boy!" and there was actually a black furry creature trotting alongside me, suddenly those cows were all obedient again. Ha ha! It was great! Sadly, our dear old doggy friend died several years later, mysteriously shot in our big field. My dad thought it was probably the work of someone attempting to steal gas from the tractors. We missed him. We had another couple of farm dogs while I was a teenager, but Dog was a legend.
Barn cats, surveying their kingdom from the palace loft.
Part 2 tomorrow: more animal love.
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