Udder Nonsense
by Rachel Klippenstein
Milk it for all it's worth During the five years Marc and I dated, I assisted with many ranch tasks. Although I watched Marc milk the family cow hundreds of times, I was never curious to learn how to do it myself.
I listened, contently, to the lively zing and ping of fresh milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket, while I fluffed fresh hay into the cow's manger and filled the water barrel.
I eagerly accepted the challenges of stick shift operation, learned correct cattle hair brushing techniques, and mastered the complexities of tractor driving. I discovered, however, that once proficiency had been achieved, one is NEVER able to unlearn a given skill. Well, one exception to that rule occurred during Marc's convalescence from wrist surgery. I did fix the stalling pickup each day by crawling underneath the engine to tighten a thing-a-ma-jig. I forgot how to repair stalling pickups the minute Marc claimed he was healthy enough "to do a little work around here."
Marc's sweet talking "you can do it," appealed to my pride. I enjoyed learning. He was a good teacher.
Never, however, did I let my guard down when Marc periodically asked, "Do you want to try milking her? Women are the best milkers."
"Oh, no thanks, dear...you do it so well."
Early in our dating years, my intuition told me that milking a cow was a chore I could always learn down the married road if I chose to. Marc didn't mind milking and I didn't mind not milking.
In twenty years of marriage I had never milked a cow. Nor had I any plans to ruin such a stunning record. But, neither had Marc planned to suffer from back spasms during the middle of calving season.
Good Old Girl calved a healthy bull calf. Three days later, I told Marc that the calf didn't appear to be nursing and that Old Girl's udder looked full. Determining that she had a touch of mastitis, he suggested I milk the cow out. "Get rid of the mastitis. The calf's not keeping up with her milk."
"Oh, no. I can't milk her."
"Sure you can. You can do it."
I hated those words. Besides, my stunning record was at stake. I couldn't give in now. "No way," I told Marc. "How about I pen the calf up until he's really hungry. He can deal with the mastitis."
"Nope. Wouldn't be good for Old Girl. She could lose a quarter...."
"So, she has plenty of milk in the other three."
"Sorry. She has to be milked. Mastitis could kill her."
"Go ahead. Lay the guilt trip on me."
"I'll come out. Where's my cane?"
"Oh, fine. Look pathetic. Go lay down. I guess I can give it a try." I moved my fingers to imitate the oft observed motion of Marc's hand. "Like this?"
"Yeah. That's it," he said, lying back down on the couch! "You got the right idea."
I walked slowly to the barn. Remember, stay close to her body. Less chance she'll kick you. Don't worry about the swishing tail. Go easy. Talk nice.
I lured Old Girl with a pan of grain close to the stout upright pole, eased a rope halter on and tied her fast. Good. That was a snap. "Hi, Old Girl. Just me here, going against my hard fought anti-milking plan. I've come to ease your pain. I clamped my fingers around the swollen teat. Hold still. Eat your grain. Squeeze. Work the fingers. One, two, three, four.
Nothing. Squeeze harder. She turned her head toward me. I hummed a lullaby. Rhythm, Rachel. Get a rhythm going. One, two, three, four. A wee bit of gunk plopped from the end of the teat. Yuck! She's making butter.
Bravely, I continued the squeezing until my wrist felt as though it would separate from my arm. A puddle of mastitis fluid collected on the ground. She was beginning to get antsy so I brought her a slab of alfalfa hay. More squeezing. More gunk. Finally, a semi fluid stream of milk hit the dirt.
I repeated this process, twice a day, for two more days. That bravery and a shot of LA 200 cleared up the mastitis. I immediately released myself from milking chores, and happily unlearned the milking skill. My record is still secure.
Rachel and her husband Marc breed registered Polled Herefords in Oregon. This is an excerpt from her second published book, "Do You, Rachel, Take Ranching for Better of for Worse".
