Back to Black

Thankfully, our usual delivery drivers around here know me…

“Have a parcel for you”, while overlooking the gate.

‘Fab, can you just stick it inside the pickup?’, head under cow trying to milk her out after she refuses to let her calf on.

“Hmm, are you happy for me to sign it for you? You look a bit busy.”

‘Certainly’ (head voice: I really don’t think your next delivery will be ecstatic to handle a signature machine covered in cow manure and udder cream).

For yes, two boys were securely plonked in car seats (they say boredom is the best way to ignite a child’s imagination, so, these two will be destined for being authors or film makers at this rate). Once pick up was positioned so they had good spectator seats, the cow sectioned off (think two attempts, there was a bull in the same field) and walked down to the handling area, I was able to start working.

Lead up to the event: An afternoon of noise from Gilly had me puzzled. Why did she keep mooing? Eventually I stood with the binoculars and watched her (told you they aren’t used to spy on neighbours…). Observations led to the realisation that she had a full udder, was nudging her calf up but then wouldn’t stand to let him feed. Oh whoop-ed-ee-do-dah. Well, it was going to have to wait till the morning.

So a early meander through the field with a bull was quickly aborted and I decided I’d entice her to the gate. So, after sorting the boys into their front row seats (well, front row but the Micro is still in a rear facing seat so his view was just of the headrest), and hence the delivery driver couldn’t get up to the house and had to join the party).

Now, the last time I had a cow in for something similar was back at calving when Breena went ballistic. I therefore wasn’t exuding confidence when ‘going under’ (if you ever see a football player dive after getting kicked in the shins, they need to come here and milk a wild one). So, just like jumping from a high dive, I held my breath and went for it.

Now, I’d love to say it was all calm and soothing. However, it didn’t start that way. Something wasn’t right (obviously) and she wasn’t wanting me touching her. A trick of the trade taught by Farmer Ian back when Breena was hormonally wild was adopted and soon, a more typical hand milking sessions was going. Other than I wasn’t sitting on a wooden stool; more crouching down ready to drop everything and run. But not crouching as if to start a 100m sprint, more a cross between a tai chi movement and I’d just met an intruder in the night. And because of that, I got an instant make up do. Yep, one tail swish in the face and I had lines under my eyes that were an Amy Winehouse wannabe look. Add a few dartings up and down with a buff on, causing a similar backcomb, beehive look for a small beehive was coming on nicely to match the eyeliner and little wonder the delivery man kept to the gate.

Well, I may not be able to sing but my cows think I should be a rockstar. Skip the black though, my waterproofs are green…

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