Animals are an
important part of farm life. Animals are to a farm what children are to a home;
a lot of trouble, a lot of money and usually a contributing factor in divorce.
Our animals were much like our children; they wandered the countryside
unfettered. Fences, we don’t need no stinking fences. Danny didn’t believe in
any sort of boundary or constraint such as laws, marriage, underwear. Danny did
not want to restrict or hinder our animals in any of their creative endeavors
either. Chickens roosted on the deck railings; Geese slept under the outdoor
furniture; Jessie, my milk cow, came to the back door to beg snacks; Rooter and
Porker, two hogs, chased my truck down the drive like 500 pound puppies. They
waited with bated breath for me to open my door and throw some fast-food morsel
to them. Neighbors were a little put off when Rooter began to chase their cars.
Danny said he would rather die than be locked up, so we ate him, Rooter, that
is.
Some things really
do taste like chicken, besides chicken. Rabbit is one of them. I inherited my
dad’s rabbits when he died, but could not look at those big bunny eyes everyday
and know they were sentenced to death. We gave most of them away, but a few made
it to a picnic.
Of all the
offensive smells on a farm, nothing quite matches a goat. We had common goats, the basic kind that eat
tin cans and climb trees. Later, my husband brought home a pregnant Nubian
milk-goat. I delivered twin kids by myself. I had come a long way from the girl
who fainted when first seeing a colt being born. The kids were unable to nurse
because of her malformed teats, but this was typical of the “good deals” Danny
brought home. I learned how to milk the stinky thing until we could pass her on
to the next unsuspecting friend.
When I was young and stupid, I wanted to raise milk cows.
I started with two six-week old calves, Betsy, a Jersey, and Jessie, a
Holstein. They were a present from my husband for my twenty-fifth birthday. I
bottle fed them the first few months and fell in love with their big-old, brown
cow eyes and sweet-feed breath. At about twenty months, they were ready to
breed. I borrowed a bull from a cousin and waited for nature to take its
course. Month after month, I was disappointed. I found out Betsy was a “gomer,”
a Biblical reference. In current vernacular, she would be a “ho.” No pregnancies, she just liked doing it.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to feed the slut, so she went the way of all
the troublemakers, the freezer. My sister said we were the only people she knew who ate their pets. On a farm, the animals have to pay their way.
Jessie eventually
became pregnant by a Santa Gertrudis. Lying on the ground, I held her head and
cried with
her as the vet used his calf-puller. The calf was too large for her to deliver
and died during labor. We then chose adoption. I got a male calf from the local dairy. Naturally
they wouldn't part with a girl. Jessie took one sniff and said "no thank
you!" Her motherly instinct left something to be desired. The only upside
was she produced plenty of milk.
For the next baby,
instead of borrowing a bull, I went shopping through the semen catalogue. I
picked out a real stud and arranged a tryst for Jessie and “The Inseminator.” He was a
strange man who made his living impregnating cows. On that Tuesday afternoon, he
arrived in a good-looking dual wheel Ford. In the bed of the truck was a large
refrigeration unit. When he opened the cooler, a white cloud of cold air wafted
out. It reminded me of the dry ice we used to put in cauldrons for Halloween.
He reached inside and brought out a semen-filled vial that he called a straw.
We walked across the field in silence. Jessie was tied at the barn chowing down
on a bucket of sweet-feed. Besides the small vial, Mr. Inseminator had what
looked like a plastic suitcase of sorts. He opened the case, pulled out a black
rubber apron and slipped it over his head. Then, he dramatically put on pair of
rubber gloves that went up to his shoulders. Jessie and I were both fascinated
with his performance. But she lost interest real quick when he lifted her tail
straight up in the air with one hand and proceeded to stick his other hand up
her butt. I thought the procedure would be a little more tender, special.
Instead, it was violent. He slung a
handful of crap from his hand. Then he clenched his jaw, grunted and thrust his
arm again. I backed up a little. Maybe I should leave them alone; I sure didn’t
want to make it a threesome. Despite the head gate, Jessie did a lively
two-step. Mr. Inseminator danced along with her while slinging more crap. Gobs
and gobs of the stuff had to be removed before he could insert the semen.
Jessie did not get off on any of this; he definitely did not appeal to her. The
Inseminator was the only one that got anything out of the arrangement— a perverted rush and a lot of my money. Jessie and I just got screwed - no satisfaction, no
baby. We chose celibacy after that.
Jessie had a great sense of humor!
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