Cow Breakfast

Just another day on the farm

             The cows are fed every morning at nine o’clock. If you’re late or behind at all, the cows will let you know. A lot is made about the rooster crowing at the sight of the sun, but in my experience, roosters crow all day long, most farmers can tell you that. Cows, on the other hand, can tell time with their stomachs, and they have four of them which makes them very accurate. Some mornings when my father is away during the summer, down the cape during the week when he can, the job falls to me, unfortunately for the cows. This means their breakfast may move to 930 or ten, and believe me they let me know about it. When I walk down the old stone gravel and dirt driveway to the barn, they are calling out my name from the barnyard. There are four of them total, but you’ll find three in the yard in the corner by the fence just waiting for me to get my morning together and feed them, mooing at me in frustrated hunger. “I know it, I hear ya, I’m coming.” When they see me I’m pretty sure they sigh and think, ‘oh it’s him. The farmer must be away. That makes sense.’ Sorry, guys. You’re stuck with me today.

            My father has these cows very well trained. As I pass the yard where they wait for me, the three of them follow me to the barn. First comes Trouble, the only female of the small herd who deserves her nickname as a result of her wild youth and affinity for escaping. The first night after we bought her from a farm up in New Hampshire, she hopped one of the gates and proceeded to take a night stroll down our street, crossed a main road and continued on through a soccer field before eventually being caught up in a neighbor’s horse pen. She was wild and missed her mother, and damned if she wasn’t headed north to find her. She’s settled down some but she still had that spark, a spark her calf has that is usually waiting in the barn where his mother is the first to follow me in. Next comes her brother who isn’t really her brother, but we call him that because we bought them together from the same herd in New Hampshire. While trouble was meant to be the maiden of a new herd, he was meant to be hamburger, and so we never did name him not thinking he’d be around long enough to bother, and he was identified as ‘The Steer.’ The steer tries to be more difficult than he really is, a result I believe of being castrated just days before he was delivered to us, an act which would certainly make me angry enough. The problem really is that he loves getting his head scratched, and while he avoided an outstretched hand as a calf, now he thrusts his head violently against your fingernails as if he’s ashamed how good it feels. He follows Trouble into the barn and around an old sink we use as a grain feeder, and as I walk over to the trash can we keep the grain in, they both offer me a moo just to make sure I’m as well trained as they are. “Oh, do you get grain in the morning? I had no idea, thanks for reminding me.”

            Then there’s Marty, the oldest cow and the biggest. Marty was a miracle, my father says, but the name didn’t stick. He was born like most of the cows on the farm used to be, in the woods away from everything. When we had a larger herd, the area in the woods by the swamp was a kind of delivery room for calves, but Marty was the last homegrown cow we’d had in about a decade and he didn’t come into the world easy. He was born in the swamp and got his legs stuck in the mud while he was still learning to use them. It wasn’t uncommon for a mother to keep her calf hidden for a few days but something spooked my father and luckily he found him in there, for god knows how long, and pulled him out saving his life. Marty became the last cow born on the farm and as the herd we had dwindled he was the last remaining member, sort of a welcome party for the two new Hampshire calves that were supposed to usher in a new generation. The fact was that he was fat, the guy who delivered the calves actually said he was the fattest cow he’d ever seen, and he had seen a lot. It wasn’t Marty’s fault; he had a lot of responsibility, after all. We sell apples and pumpkins in the fall and the rotting or extra fruit we have falls to the cows to get rid of, only he was a one cow herd for awhile and the job takes a toll on your figure.

But in the morning, trained as he is, Marty hangs back when I give the first scoop of grain to the other two in the old sink feeder. Marty watches from the doorway just to make sure that after I fill the sink I head back over to the grain can to get a scoop for him. We began feeding them separately when the calves were young in fear that Marty would use his size to eat all their grain himself. When I get the second scoop in the can he turns around and heads back to the yard where there’s an old red iron bathtub that serves as an outdoor feeder for pumpkins and apples, and in the morning, Marty’s grain. He always gets there first and stands right in front of the tub anxiously waiting. As I approach the tub, I can see that his front legs are walking in place like he’s marching, only his hind legs are standing straight down behind him, not moving. It appears to be the equivalent of a mess hall full of soldiers pounding their fists on the table as they wait supper; only his old cloudy eyes are excited and fixed on the scoop in my hand. When I pour it in and he drops his face into the pile of corn and grains all covered in molasses, I can’t help but notice how old he looks. It’s not fair either because the winter is warming up now and he’s losing a lot of fur and leaving bare skin behind in preparation for his summer coat, so he looks in worse shape than he is. But still, he’s old. Over ten years old at least, and you can hear it when he walks. He lets out a grunt when he’s walking through the cow path now, and he certainly takes his time on the journey to the pastures.

When the calves first arrived he was the one who walked ahead of them, leading them around this new place they didn’t know. And when they reached the bigger fields he’d watch them run and jump like wild animals in the open area, grazing as he looked on like he was watching his own kids play. But now he was always at the back of the line to the pasture, hanging back with the calf as the other two went ahead to get a drink of water from the stream or to start grazing without him. My dad thinks he might have arthritis, but I think he’s just got about ten seasons worth of pumpkins and apples in him and it’s a lot to carry. Either way he’s getting up there, and like my father says, it may be about time to take him up to auction while he can still get into a trailer. Same with the steer, at least, that was always the plan.

But plans aside, I don’t think my dad looks forward to killing either of them. Especially Marty, who lets my dad scratch his head and even turns to the side when he wants my dad to rub his ears and neck. My fathers getting up there too and I think he can relate to old Marty at the back of the line, his legs aching as he tries to keep up. The truth is, I don’t think my father looks forward to killing anything these days. I guess the older you get the less you like doing things like that, even when you know they have to be done. And that’s not saying my dad ever got any pleasure out of killing cows, but when he was selling sides of beef to help pay the bills or to feed his kids, it wasn’t a hard choice to make. But something like Marty who we’ve had around for a decade, its hard to say he’s run out of use and its better to get rid of him now while he can still walk. I bet it’s the same with a lot of old farmers and hunters, you get to a certain age and you don’t find as much reason to kill anymore, and you don’t find a whole lot of pleasure in it either. I suppose they just as soon leave it to the younger generation, then again, I’m not sure how much killing I have in me.

Heading back to the barn I can see that Trouble has taken over the sink of grain and the steer is waiting by the calf and the blue iron hay feeder my father build for a bale of hay to finish breakfast. The calf doesn’t have any use for grain and he’s trying to eat hay like his mom and uncles do, but I’m not sure how much he actually likes it yet. He’s six months old but he still can be found nursing off his mother sometimes, but I get the feeling he tries to hide it a little. I cut the strings and toss a whole bale in the feeder, which they attack, only Trouble finishes her grain and heads out to finish Marty’s, too. When she gets over to the tub, he looks up to her approaching and starts to eat even faster than he was before, and when she arrives he departs and heads in for the hay. When she first got here she couldn’t wait to leave, now she was in charge and even Marty knew it. She’s half his size but she commands the herd in other ways.

Things really changed when she had her calf. Marty, like I said, had been the last one born here so he’d never seen anything like it. But no one seemed more surprised than Trouble herself, and while some people tell you a mother just knows, I think she was shocked when her stomach ache turned into a small black cow that fell out of her. The older herd used to hide their calves for a few days, but she came right out to the fence in the back yard with him to show him off, maybe hoping someone else would know what to do with it. That’s not to say she wasn’t a good mother. She cleaned it and nursed it and protected it when she could, but it’s a small herd and none of them had seen this happen before. I think it made Marty and the steer back off her a little and follow her lead a little more. You don’t really see the steer butting heads with her much anymore, and Marty gave up his place at the front of the line. And now, even though Marty is twice her size, Trouble finishes his grain.

When her grain is done, she heads into the barn. She pushes her way in between the two bigger cows and starts eating the hay I left them. I walk up after I’ve collected the eggs and push my knuckle into Marty’s forehead, and he pushes against it like a scratching post, a trick the young steer hasn’t mastered yet. When I try to scratch his head he backs away at first, then charges at it and swings his head up violently, then brings it down and tries again. He could learn a lot from Marty, but he’s getting better. Trouble has no problem letting me drag my hand over the side of her face and under her chin. Her wild days are behind her and she’s a mother now. Her calf pulls a mouth full of straw from the feeder beside her and chews on it indifferently letting half of it fall on the ground, waiting until I leave before he’ll head under her to nurse out of sight. After they’re all finished, Trouble will start the parade out to the yard and up the hill and through the cow path by the barbed wire fence to the open field to graze and sip water from the stream. And after a day of grazing, they will head back to the barnyard and wait for me to feed them dinner. I’ll try to get their before they start mooing to remind me, and I’m sure when they see it’s me heading down they’ll sigh and be disappointed it’s not my father. “Sorry guys, you’re still stuck with me. Let me know if I’m forgetting anything.”

Reviews

[Black Hole Halo]

who would have thought cow feeding would be so riveting, I started reading and it reminded me of my days on the farm and I just couldn't stop. You are a very talented writer and I think if you can make cows this interesting you are bound to go far in this field. Many people think Cows are dumb, but they are every bit as smart as dogs however much more independently stubborn, lol. I love this write, I can smell the molasses and hay and manure, feel the hide and hair under your fingers...it's wonderful, it truly is, it makes me think along the lines of "Black Beauty".

[Emma Berman]

This is interesting. How do you know so much about cows?

[Samuel Dickens]

You've done a great job here, telling us about Trouble, Marty, and "The steer", (aka "brother") Perhaps not as interesting to some as a story about werewolves, but I enjoyed it.
An error here--"I’ll try to get their before...."

[Mackenzie Brooke]

Really great !