As soon as all the cows had stepped into their proper stalls, I pulled the lever on the south side of the barn to close that row of neck bars. This loose restraint would keep them from wandering around the barn during milking chores. Daddy pulled the lever to close the neck bars on the north side stanchions. I hoped all 36 cows were held in place. Sometimes one would try to trick us by stepping into her stall but pushing her head alongside the device that could keep her there.
The cows were stubborn about coming into the barn tonight. Two of them took turns trying to squeeze past barricades to enter the area in front of the stanchions. That was no big surprise because the loaded feed cart was parked there. They just wanted an extra mouthful of delicious ground oats. Daddy yelled and slapped the cows’ haunches and hollered that their behavior was bad enough to make a saint swear. His anger seemed to make the greedy cows act stupider.
Calm returned to the barn after Daddy took the feed cart around and portioned out the feed that each cow was to get. The cows lapped up the grain and chomped loudly as they ate hay. One cow that I was standing near shook her head until her ears flopped comically. She laid down, exhaling loudly. The chains holding the neck bars in place clinked as she moved. I loved these big, dumb cows with their flat faces and dark, iridescent eyes. I didn’t even mind the smell of them.
My 22-year-old brother, who normally worked on the farm with Daddy, had been drafted by the army about a year ago. Although I was 12 years old, I wasn’t made to learn how to milk cows. I was glad about that. Although I liked the cows, I was a little afraid of crawling under them. Mom had milked cows with Daddy when they were first married, so she went back to doing it again.
I often spent most of the milking time in the barn, just sitting on the stairs to the haymow playing with one of the barn cats or talking to Mom or Daddy as they milked a cow. That night as I watched Daddy, I commented, “The cows act stupid and confused when we want them to go into their stalls, but they seem happy now that they’re there.”
Daddy answered with disgust, “They’re dumb like foxes.”
I knew what he meant. Daddy felt that the cows purposely acted foolish in a strategically intelligent way to annoy him and to get more feed in the process. I also knew that he completely hated working with horses. He did like doing field work, though, but only if he could use a tractor. I think the only reason Daddy was a farmer, was because his father had owned a farm. When Daddy reached his teens, he had to quit school and work at home.
I have often wondered what Daddy’s life would have looked like if my grandpa hadn’t owned a farm. Although Daddy only attended school through the fifth grade, he spoke German and English. Reading was one of his favorite leisure activities. The topic that he was especially fond of was History. I remember earlier that summer, as I helped him unload hay bales from a wagon, he told me about the interesting historical stories he had read the night before. In another life and another world, I think Daddy would have made a fantastic history teacher!
Although Daddy felt that cows were sly, sneaky, greedy creatures and that horses were lazy, hateful, work-avoiding animals, he didn’t appear to dislike his life as a farmer. I think he recognized that there are frustrations in every life, whether doing a dream job or a job that just landed in your lap. He knew no other life. I assume he was happy because he had his family around him and books to read. Unfortunately, he was also surrounded by milk cows who were “dumb like foxes”.
