humblest of injections, she would roar with fright, her bowels turned instantly to water. Every gate was a place of terror to her, for those in front hooked her as she tried to pass and those behind did too as she then held back. To go through last would have been sensible, but you could tell by her rolling eye that her conviction was that then Gladwyn or I would beat her to death with our sticks or the dogs would leap up (quite a long way for most of them) and tear out her throat.
I bought a small rusty black sharp-horned beast of Kerry blood and toyed therefore with the notion of giving her some Irish name like Siobhan, but she named herself the first time I milked her. Some cows let fly when you put the teat cups on them, some while they are being milked, somewhen you remove the clusters. Kicker did all three. But unlike most kicking cows, who object to the act of milking for reasons of innate nervousness or previous ill-usage or sore teats, Kicker, like a professional footballer, practiced the art for its own sake, so that to pass between her and her neighbor was not something to be done absentmindedly. Worse, like a mule she could kick through an arc of 180 degrees, and to stand or walk too close behind her was to invite trouble; immediate, lightning-swift, deadly accurate. You could rely on Kicker.
You could rely on Thompson for unshakable placidity. A huge pedigree British Friesian, bought as a third calver, she was the first of that breed to enter my cowshed. Bred on the chalk, she had bones like a rhinoceros, a bag like a barrage balloon, and feet that made old Buttercup's seem almost dainty. All her actions were carried out with monumental slowness, her walk, the business of getting up or lying down, the turn of her head, even the movement of her jaw when chewing the cud. Her reactions were as sluggish. If Thompson stood (accidentally: she hadn't an ounce of vice in her) on your foot, no amount of angry swearing or agonized yelling or frantic thumping of her massive sides would release you until the snail-paced message reached her brain to say that something was amiss.
You could depend on Polly for a laugh, sometimes a wryone. Like all good comedians, she had a look about her that made you smile, without a moo spoken. Part of the reason for this was that she was a purebred Ayrshire, a breed with a big spread of horn, but had been dehorned — polled — as a calf, hence her name. In those times this made her appear quaint. She also had an extremely long giraffe neck and a face that seemed more mobile than the rest, and therefore more comical. People smiled when they looked at Polly and seemed half to expect in return a nod of recognition or a wink of complicity, so knowing did she look.
If she had spoken, it would have been about food, for her other hallmark was an insatiable appetite. It was Polly who always finished her cake or hay before anyone else and was then busy contorting that long neck to steal her neighbor's. It was Polly you kept the most careful eye on if the herd was turned out onto something a bit lush, for she'd be the first to be blown. It was Polly who found gaps in hedges, made holes in fences, and even, I sometimes thought, lifted the latches of gates to get at the grass that was greener on the other side.
One night she nearly ate herself to death.
Since I'd turned part of the cowshed into a fodder store, we always kept the connecting door closed in case a cow should get loose overnight. Because Polly had nohorns, a chain would not hold her, and she always wore a leather collar, buckled as tight as was possible. On this particular night, three mischances coincided. Her collar was slack, the door had been left ajar, and in the store were a number of bags of raw linseed, the harvest of one of my experiments with growing esoteric crops.
In the morning I could hear the groans before I was halfway up the yard and ran, and there was her stall empty. For once there was nothing to laugh at about
I bought a small rusty black sharp-horned beast of Kerry blood and toyed therefore with the notion of giving her some Irish name like Siobhan, but she named herself the first time I milked her. Some cows let fly when you put the teat cups on them, some while they are being milked, somewhen you remove the clusters. Kicker did all three. But unlike most kicking cows, who object to the act of milking for reasons of innate nervousness or previous ill-usage or sore teats, Kicker, like a professional footballer, practiced the art for its own sake, so that to pass between her and her neighbor was not something to be done absentmindedly. Worse, like a mule she could kick through an arc of 180 degrees, and to stand or walk too close behind her was to invite trouble; immediate, lightning-swift, deadly accurate. You could rely on Kicker.
You could rely on Thompson for unshakable placidity. A huge pedigree British Friesian, bought as a third calver, she was the first of that breed to enter my cowshed. Bred on the chalk, she had bones like a rhinoceros, a bag like a barrage balloon, and feet that made old Buttercup's seem almost dainty. All her actions were carried out with monumental slowness, her walk, the business of getting up or lying down, the turn of her head, even the movement of her jaw when chewing the cud. Her reactions were as sluggish. If Thompson stood (accidentally: she hadn't an ounce of vice in her) on your foot, no amount of angry swearing or agonized yelling or frantic thumping of her massive sides would release you until the snail-paced message reached her brain to say that something was amiss.
You could depend on Polly for a laugh, sometimes a wryone. Like all good comedians, she had a look about her that made you smile, without a moo spoken. Part of the reason for this was that she was a purebred Ayrshire, a breed with a big spread of horn, but had been dehorned — polled — as a calf, hence her name. In those times this made her appear quaint. She also had an extremely long giraffe neck and a face that seemed more mobile than the rest, and therefore more comical. People smiled when they looked at Polly and seemed half to expect in return a nod of recognition or a wink of complicity, so knowing did she look.
If she had spoken, it would have been about food, for her other hallmark was an insatiable appetite. It was Polly who always finished her cake or hay before anyone else and was then busy contorting that long neck to steal her neighbor's. It was Polly you kept the most careful eye on if the herd was turned out onto something a bit lush, for she'd be the first to be blown. It was Polly who found gaps in hedges, made holes in fences, and even, I sometimes thought, lifted the latches of gates to get at the grass that was greener on the other side.
One night she nearly ate herself to death.
Since I'd turned part of the cowshed into a fodder store, we always kept the connecting door closed in case a cow should get loose overnight. Because Polly had nohorns, a chain would not hold her, and she always wore a leather collar, buckled as tight as was possible. On this particular night, three mischances coincided. Her collar was slack, the door had been left ajar, and in the store were a number of bags of raw linseed, the harvest of one of my experiments with growing esoteric crops.
In the morning I could hear the groans before I was halfway up the yard and ran, and there was her stall empty. For once there was nothing to laugh at about
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