The calf did not come out easy-peasy. I hadn’t expected it to. I’d just wanted to get rid of Owen.
That had gone well.
While I’d been fishing around inside Duchess, he’d snuck closer and now leaned over the open stall door.
“Where’s Reggie?”
I didn’t need a strange dog trotting in here and scaring my expectant mother. She was twitchy enough already.
“He’s chasing field mice.”
“‘And bopping them on the head, ’” I sang under my breath.
“What?”
“The song?” He continued to stare at me blankly. “‘Little Bunny Foo-Foo.’” My mother had sung it to me so often I’d named my first bunny Foo-Foo.
“The white rabbit with the black nose,” Owen said.
He remembered the pet but not the song. I shouldn’t be surprised. Owen hadn’t had a mother like mine. I didn’t even want to think of what his might have sung to him while drunk or high or both.
“Just make sure Reggie doesn’t race in here and spook this cow. She’s got enough on her mind.”
“I’ll close the door.”
“Will he bark if he’s out there and you’re in here?”
Owen cast me a disgusted glance. “He’s a military working dog. He’d sit out there waiting for me until the cows come home.”
“Ha,” I deadpanned.
He grinned, and for a minute I was dazzled by that smile the same way I always had been. Then Duchess bore down and squeezed my arm hard enough to make my eyes water. Something that felt like a hoof brushed the tip of my fingers, and I lunged.
Duchess grunted. Bitch!
“Sorry.”
“You talking to the cow?”
“That a problem?” I asked.
“Only if they answer.”
I wasn’t even going to go there.
“The door,” I reminded him.
Duchess lifted her nose and let out a very loud moooo.
You’d think she was the first cow to calf.
Just because it’s her first doesn’t mean it’s the first.
If you’d relax, sugar, this would all end sooner.
Duchess swung her head right, then left. But because of the head gate, she couldn’t see the others. Didn’t stop her from “talking” to them.
If you don’t shut up I’m going to end you.
The cows shifted, huffed. I swear one even rolled her eyes. They were all named for the nobility—Duchess, Lady, Countess, Marchioness, Majesty, Queenie, Princess, Victoria, Bess, Kate, and so on. Despite those names, they reminded me of a gaggle of housewives in a fifties hair salon.
I stifled a giggle at the idea of that image immortalized on velvet, then leaned my head against the warm rump of Her Grace for an instant.
“While you’re at it, could you shut the door to the corral too?”
“Sure.” The door creaked. “Good night, ladies.”
Well, I never!
We were just trying to help.
The nerve!
You’ll be so—
The door closed. The comments ended.
I knew their dialogue was all in my head, as were the pithy retorts of Duchess. That the laboring cow huffed and glared in perfect syncopation with the remarks was most likely her response to my heightened tension.
I wished my mind would stop its running commentary in animal voices. But I’d been wishing that all my life, and my wish was never granted.
“Could you bring some warm water?” I called. “There are buckets next to the sink in the milking parlor. Should be some soap up there too, if you’d squirt some in.”
“Got it.” A few seconds later the sound of water hitting the bottom of said bucket commenced.
I should have insisted that Owen get lost, but Emerson hadn’t looked good. He was getting too old for this job, though I’d never tell him. Comments like those would only insure that he’d work even harder to prove me wrong and wind up with a hernia. Farmers were as stubborn as bulls. I swear the term bullheaded was coined just for them.
Unfortunately for Emerson, he and his wife had four daughters—all grown, married, and gone. Not one of their husbands was interested in taking over the farm, which meant Emerson would hold on to the place as long as he could, then sell it. Or he’d keel over trying to prove to me, or some other moron who’d said he should slow down, that he shouldn’t, and his wife would unload the place so she could live in a condo on the lake. The farm that had been in the Watley family for so long that the road to the east had been dubbed Watley Road would be no more.
It was a common enough occurrence. Very few people of my age group wanted to be dairy farmers. Very few people in my age group had the stones for it.
In my family, my brothers—the twins Jamie and Joe—certainly didn’t. At seventeen, they were strong and able and they did what they were told, but they also counted the days until they didn’t have to any more.
My sister, Melanie, was the best bet for the next generation at Carstairs farm. She attended the University of Wisconsin–River Falls where she was studying dairy science.