The Cow Barn

I walk in the barn and set down my pail. The cow already saw me coming and sticks her head in the stock rack before I have a chance to dump the grain in. It trickles over her nose sending up a cloud of dust that dances in the shafts of sunlight sneaking between the wood planks. I inhale the sweet smell of grain that I will always enjoy.

I step around the stocks and pat the neck of my old friend.  Her washboard spine at the top gives way to flabby flesh on the underside that would be the bane of any sunbather. I give the dirty, white hide a firm rub, tracing a black splotch here and there. I run my hand across her ribs a few times before sitting down on the hard, wooden milk stool.

I smother bag balm on her utter and teats. My hands, too, welcome the soft grease as it smoothes my chapped skin. Her utter is rock hard. I firmly grab two teats and begin my rhythmic pulse, drawing warm milk down into the pail. It pings and dances as it hits its target. Squirt, ping, squirt, ping.

The little calico kitten knows what time it is and rounds the corner. Keeping a safe distance from the deadly hooves, he sits in the  corner and mews. After a few moments I take aim and squirt a few bits of milk at him. He has become very good at playing catch. After his turn is over, he licks his paw and carefully draws them across his face, licking it again to get every last drop of the sweet goodness.

I bury my forehead into the flank of my old friend and shift to the other set of teats. The milk pail is nearly half-full now and the music has changed. Squirt, splash, squirt, splash.

A fly buzzes my ear and a tail brushes the side of my head. The fly must have landed on her hip.

I massage her utter to draw down the last drops of milk and squirt the final bits into the pail. I release my friend from the stocks, thanking her for her donation to dinner. My hands are stiff from the work, but my heart is full. I love my quiet time in the barn.