to make sure they’re evenly distributed, slaps the bony haunch of the occasional laggard, Go on, get in there.
The dairy barn contains four feeding troughs: two on either long wall, and two more running next to each other down the barn’s center. This is called the milking alley, but the boy prefers to think of the long metal bins as two sets of train rails run side by side, and when the ladies stand haunch to haunch between them they form the ties, and once they’re all in place his uncle lowers the electronic boom collars. Each of the four collars is a set of steel tubes curved in a shape that resembles the rounded dentals below the eaves of his uncle’s house, an up-and-down notching that descends from the rafters like a pin changer to slip over the ladies’ necks just behind the flaring of their skulls. The collars were blue when they were new and they’re blue on top still, but their undersides are silver and shiny from years of beingabraded by necks as big around as the boy’s waist. Their only function is to keep the ladies from walking away while their teats are hooked to the claw of the milking machine: although the four stainless steel nozzles are supposed to slide off with a good tug they don’t always, and the boy’s uncle has spoken of panicked cows who rip off their own teats in their struggle to free themselves.
While the boy has been herding the ladies in, his uncle has filled a pile of gunnysacks through a chute that pours down from the silo, and as soon as the collars are in place the boy grabs a fifty-pound sack and pours the shredded corn into a trough. There is a narrow lane beyond each of the outer troughs and another alley between the two center troughs, and the boy walks backward down these alleys to spread the silage evenly and keep it from spilling over the edge of the trough. As he walks, the ladies behind him low in anticipation of his arrival. Their calls make him think that he is a finger running a glissando the length of a giant keyboard, and indeed, it is like music to him, this process—not listening to music, but playing it. The ladies low like a band tuning up, and then, when the troughs are filled, their teeth crunch grain with a regular sound, like a distant marching corps.
Like the collars, the corn’s only function is to keep the ladies calmly in place while they’re milked; it would be less complicated by far to feed them in the barnyard. Now the boy grabs a stool and one of the pails he filled with water and starts on the nearest lady. There are four teats per lady and four nozzles per claw, but some of the ladies have a shrunken teat and nearly all of them have at least one that is reddened by mastitis, and he lets these hang free, hooking up only those teats that are pale and plump and eager to release their liquid treasure.
The boy pulls the rag from his pail. In the springtime the ladies’ teats are covered with mud and manure: they feed and give milk and shit at the same time, and even though most of the latter falls into a six-inch gutter located under their tails some of it inevitably splatters onto the swollen udders. At first this repulsed the boy but now he only notices if some spatters a teat he has already cleaned. He uses his rag to wipe the swollen sacks, squeezing lightly so as not to force out any milk, and when the teat is clean he slips the tip into a nozzle and opens the valve and watches to make sure the suction slurps it in evenly, without pinching the tender skin. As soon as the transparent hose running out the other end of the nozzle turns white he drops his dirty rag into his pail and moves on to the next teat or the next lady. Fifteen ladies per trough, four troughs in the barn. Every station is filled, which is unusual, especially at this time of year. His uncle’s herd normally has ten or eleven dries but right now there are only four. There are two bulls as well, meaning there are sixty-one wet cows in the barn: he does thirty and his uncle
The dairy barn contains four feeding troughs: two on either long wall, and two more running next to each other down the barn’s center. This is called the milking alley, but the boy prefers to think of the long metal bins as two sets of train rails run side by side, and when the ladies stand haunch to haunch between them they form the ties, and once they’re all in place his uncle lowers the electronic boom collars. Each of the four collars is a set of steel tubes curved in a shape that resembles the rounded dentals below the eaves of his uncle’s house, an up-and-down notching that descends from the rafters like a pin changer to slip over the ladies’ necks just behind the flaring of their skulls. The collars were blue when they were new and they’re blue on top still, but their undersides are silver and shiny from years of beingabraded by necks as big around as the boy’s waist. Their only function is to keep the ladies from walking away while their teats are hooked to the claw of the milking machine: although the four stainless steel nozzles are supposed to slide off with a good tug they don’t always, and the boy’s uncle has spoken of panicked cows who rip off their own teats in their struggle to free themselves.
While the boy has been herding the ladies in, his uncle has filled a pile of gunnysacks through a chute that pours down from the silo, and as soon as the collars are in place the boy grabs a fifty-pound sack and pours the shredded corn into a trough. There is a narrow lane beyond each of the outer troughs and another alley between the two center troughs, and the boy walks backward down these alleys to spread the silage evenly and keep it from spilling over the edge of the trough. As he walks, the ladies behind him low in anticipation of his arrival. Their calls make him think that he is a finger running a glissando the length of a giant keyboard, and indeed, it is like music to him, this process—not listening to music, but playing it. The ladies low like a band tuning up, and then, when the troughs are filled, their teeth crunch grain with a regular sound, like a distant marching corps.
Like the collars, the corn’s only function is to keep the ladies calmly in place while they’re milked; it would be less complicated by far to feed them in the barnyard. Now the boy grabs a stool and one of the pails he filled with water and starts on the nearest lady. There are four teats per lady and four nozzles per claw, but some of the ladies have a shrunken teat and nearly all of them have at least one that is reddened by mastitis, and he lets these hang free, hooking up only those teats that are pale and plump and eager to release their liquid treasure.
The boy pulls the rag from his pail. In the springtime the ladies’ teats are covered with mud and manure: they feed and give milk and shit at the same time, and even though most of the latter falls into a six-inch gutter located under their tails some of it inevitably splatters onto the swollen udders. At first this repulsed the boy but now he only notices if some spatters a teat he has already cleaned. He uses his rag to wipe the swollen sacks, squeezing lightly so as not to force out any milk, and when the teat is clean he slips the tip into a nozzle and opens the valve and watches to make sure the suction slurps it in evenly, without pinching the tender skin. As soon as the transparent hose running out the other end of the nozzle turns white he drops his dirty rag into his pail and moves on to the next teat or the next lady. Fifteen ladies per trough, four troughs in the barn. Every station is filled, which is unusual, especially at this time of year. His uncle’s herd normally has ten or eleven dries but right now there are only four. There are two bulls as well, meaning there are sixty-one wet cows in the barn: he does thirty and his uncle
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