Bovine Memories

By Jack Evans circa 1985

The barn door, large enough to allow our 1931 Essex to pass, slid to the left. Inside, little space remained in front of the vehicle, but enough alongside to have shoved a second auto sideways to clear the first. The area toward the rear of the barn had been largely appropriated for the bovine abode, namely, the stall for old Popeye, as we called her. Popeye at her peak production manufactured about 12 quarts of milk a day. She exuded a couple of other products that smelled up the place, and gave an aroma to the upholstery in the Essex, which was unappreciated by Mother, or by me.

Popeye was so old she had only a few teeth. My father jokingly considered dentures for her, but concluded they were impractical. As an alternative, he borrowed a cutting machine to chop up the hay, so he could, you might say, spoon-feed her. I don’t know what this chopping machine was originally intended for. It consisted of a wooden trough about 8 inches wide into which the operator placed a big handful of the material to be chopped and shoved it toward a revolving blade. The other hand grasped the handle of a large crank, and when the operator put his muscle to the task, the blade rotated at high speed. By its construction, it seemed this device was an excellent instrument to excise a couple of fingers.

Popeye was one of several cows, and undoubtedly the best, that came in succession from Dr. Trott, next door. It was a business arrangement in which he owned the cow, we supplied the shelter, the feed, pulled her teats twice a day, and delivered two quarts of milk to his household. Doc took the cows in payment for his medical services. Although the principal of this barter was the cow, the transaction had a definite horse-trading aspect. Obviously, a farmer was not parting with any prize animal to satisfy medical bills. On the contrary, the object was to foist upon Doc some critter that hardly would be accepted at the sausage works. In general, that was the kind of cow we got!

There came a time when we had to say goodbye to Popeye. Her milk production went way down and she was old and miserable. The morning the truck came to take her away, the thermometer registered 35 degrees below zero, the coldest day of 1933. When I awoke that morning, the water in the tumbler on the pool table rail near my bed was frozen. The linoleum floor covering, considered by my mother appropriate for a room with a pool table, seemed to my bare feet as the surface of an ice rink. The biting cold must have been even more unbearable to poor old Popeye. I had pangs of sympathy for her as she passed the kitchen window aboard an open truck.

Cows came and went. Their quality as dairy animals bordered on the ridiculous. One in particular earned a permanent place in my memory. The doctor had left a message at the house for me to lead home a cow from a farm two miles to the northwest.

I started on my task directly after school. In the bam, I found a hank of rope about 10 feet long and set out on foot in mid-afternoon on a sparkling spring day. I could hardly object to this duty in such inspiring natural splendor. I knew of the Paul farm, since Lucille, one of the Paul children was in the same sophomore high school class. Part of the route lay along the state highway and part of it over a narrow dirt road.

In about half an hour, I arrived at the farm. Lucille and her little sister were in the garden behind the house. “Hi, Lucille, do you know of a cow that I’m supposed to lead back to the village for Doc Trott?”. Yes, she knew about it and could hardly conceal her amazement that I was to perform the task. She pointed to the pasture where the animal was corralled. She stayed a few paces behind me as I approached the field of action.

The pasture was on the order of three or four acres; instantly I spotted its lone occupant. To my astonishment this cow had horns! Most dairy cattle have their horns clipped at an early age. I opened the gate and proceeded cautiously toward the animal. Out of the comer of my eye, I noticed Lucille and her little sister quickly closed the gate behind me. I advanced slowly, - approaching “Bossy” broadside and looking her over carefully, to appraise her bovine merits. At about twenty feet, she reared, turning her hindquarters toward me. She obviously had learned long before that such a maneuver placed me at an unmistakable disadvantage. Trying to circumvent her rear end, I walked around toward her head, she retaliated by again turning that backside toward me. I perceived then and there the value of the cowboy’s horse and his lasso. That’s what I needed, a horse and lasso!

I tried to approach her at various angles, but she either swung her rear quarters around toward me, or kicked up her heels and galloped away to another part of the field. I had observed enough to conclude that the cow’s udder was non-existent. Retreating back to Lucille, I inquired, “When was that cow last milked?” Lucille didn’t seem to know with any certainty, but the conclusion was that it had been a very long time in the past. The truth was clear enough: as a dairy cow, she was worthless! But nevertheless, my duty was to bring back the animal.

Lucille suggested that she could round up several nearby farm kids to drive the cow into a comer of the field. I was agreeable to about anything. I knew for sure that rounding up several schoolboys was much easier than rounding up one uncooperative cow. It seemed no time at all before Lucille had acquired two boys and an older girl, giving us a team, including me, of six. On the third attempt, we cornered that ornery animal; I had visions of her turning upon us with those horns. Reaching through the fence, I snatched a handful of alfalfa and thrust it at Lucille, saying, “See if this will get her attention!” That alfalfa, to that cow, was like a cigarette to an addict who was deprived of tobacco for a week. I passed a line with a slipknot around the beast’s neck. I gave a tug on the line and we were on our way toward the gate. Momentarily, at least, everything was under control.

I bid adieu to Lucille and her friends, thanking them all heartily, and with a firm grasp on the line started homeward. I soon discovered that, although lacking in those admirable features identified with a fine dairy cow, the animal had remarkable eyesight and discernment of the choicest green fodder. She could recognize a clump of alfalfa twenty-five feet or more in any direction. Once thus spotted, there was no denying her intentions. She headed directly for it. There was no way I could hold her back. I was no match at all for her strength. She advanced from one alfalfa clump to another, dragging me after her as a very unwilling follower. I was hoping that the line around her neck would choke her to death, but the noose did not faze her in the least. Our progress was measured from one alfalfa clump to the next. There were two positive aspects in this tug of war: we didn’t backtrack, how could we? All those alfalfa stalks behind us were gone! Secondly, on this back road there was a complete absence of traffic.

Over an hour had passed as we approached the main highway. I was more than a little apprehensive about what would happen. Would I still be contending with the cow’s appetite for alfalfa? Would the animal crisscross the highway, risking collision with fast-moving vehicles? My hands were sore and tired of hanging onto that rope. I dared not lose my grip. We made the tum at the main highway towards the village to the south. Not a stalk of alfalfa was in sight! Our forward progress markedly picked up. Bossy actually hit a stride down the right shoulder of the road. The line around her neck hung loose--what a relief! It was as if she recognized that broad shoulder of the highway as her ordained route of travel! She was oblivious to passing automobiles. Together we marched, boy and cow, into the heart of the village.

My instructions were to take the cow to a pasture lot off a side street joining the main highway just a little beyond our house. A fairly long, straight driveway led back to the pasture. I had a sense of accomplishment on that last leg of the journey down the driveway. In school, I had just read from Caesar, Laboria omnia vincit (Perseverance overcomes all things). I had persevered; I had accomplished what I had set out to do, despite obstacles. The last steps to the pasture gate proceeded as a march of triumph.

I opened the small wooden gate, wide enough to accommodate the cow and deftly untied the line around her neck as she slipped through. With some sense of relief, I hooked the gate and turned back toward the side street. I had only taken a few steps when the sound of a crash and crunch startled me. The pasture gate came tumbling off the cow’s horns at my feet. She sped past me like the Pony Express, took a left tum at the side street at a full gallop and headed east out of town. What a surprise! What a defeat! I didn’t bother to pick up the gate. I just turned toward home and the dinner that was waiting.

Doc had been “had” again. I was a kind of incidental second victim one step down the chain of command. Doc did retrieve that animal, but not with my help. Doc had: an airport and a plane, as well as other sidelines such as a fox farm, a grapefruit ranch in Texas, pinball machines, and other enterprises all fueled by his medical practice. The airplane came in handy. He, or his pilot, a day or two later, spotted the cow about two miles east on a country byway. No doubt she was munching alfalfa! I declined to have much to do with cows after that. You might say I chalked it all up to experience. That’s what we live for, the experience!

Editor’s Note: Thank you to the Evans Family for sharing Jack’s work.