Yesterday we walked above the clouds.
Today I join a newborn under a cow.
Our heads are together. I feel his rough red hair against the side of my neck. We are both intent; he on dragging every drop of milk from his mother, while I focus on the scissors clearing long hairs around the delicate fleshy cones that might deflect a questing mouth.
He appeared Boxing Day morn – already on his feet as I come down at first light,
refuses to drop under Abby’s stomach,
signalled instincts misread,
reaches up not under.
A day later and I must intervene. Abby is wed to her companions so they’ll all have to come. I lead them rattling a feedbag
past Angus Halfhorn and the boys held back in the hayfield
so keen to meet young Holly and Alice!
Not yet boys..!
With the pair safely penned at the shed: the girls must be led straight back home: shunning Angus cantering along just the other side of the fence.
And now to work: Abby in the crush moves calmly, bless her ,stands while I squeeze loose the hard wad plugging the milk stream in each quarter.,
…and he takes it. Sometimes they exhaust themselves resisting, others just aren’t interested (one, George Halfcalf ..never cottoned on at all). This one wants it – glory be – and before long I can leave him while I attend to udder trimming.
It will be cold tonight: he’ll sleep in the hay with a full stomach.