I would like to discuss with you my identification with the cow leaning over a fence in this milk carton photo that Darigiold
doubtless wants you to think depicts a realistic dairy farm.
I carry a miniature Bessie and Bambi, two Guernsey cows. I carry them in a cracked wallet, shaped like a heart, in my pocket.
Our cows, that grazed over rain-lush fields in Snohomish, our little farm close to a little town on a big river in Washington state–
they looked like dairy cows.
Not neutered, like the pretend cow on the Darigold carton.
Our Bessie, our Bambi had udders, big ones, from which you squirted milk into a pail. At age 13, I found this all quite repellent.
Although I loved Bambi’s black eyes and Bessie’s gentleness, when my dad gave me the chore of filling the watering trough one day,
I lied and said, “yeah, Dad, I filled it.”
Oh no you didn’t, it was plumb dry, came his reply. I wish I could tell you how I regretted that, but I just shrugged and probably giggled
at that “plumb dry.” You’ve probably guessed, they’re all gone now–Dad, cows, farm, watering trough, and the salt lick next to it.
I hope they didn’t gaze over the fence at me, walking away for the last time.
Since you’re wondering: Yes, I licked that salt lick. Yes, I left the gate open many times. Yes, I stomped on a beautiful moth once,
to see which was faster, my boot or its wings.
