Betsy

Betsy the Cow

The woods surrounding my parent’s home came right up to the yard in those days. This made getting wood heat relatively easy, but owning land has more possibilities for use than firewood. After a couple of years of cutting the closer trees, it became apparent that the grass grew abundantly when sunlight was allowed in. Dad decided that growing boys needed milk and what better way to get it than to have a milk cow. We took lessons in fence building, and before you know it had an enclosure we now call the upper pasture. Once there was a place to stay, animal husbandry seemed obvious. Betsy came to live with us when I was about twelve years old. She was a Guernsey by breeding, and had no manners whatsoever. In fact she was ornery and superstitious. After some instruction from my dad, it became my job to milk the cow. She liked to hang out at the far end of the pasture in the daytime, where the grass was obviously better, and had no sense of time at all. I always had to go get her at milking time. As I said, she was superstitious and would never take the same path to the barn twice. It apparently was bad luck. I would walk down to get her, and she would remember what this was about, and off to the barn we would go. On muddy days I would hop onto her back and ride up the hill. She didn’t mind, and it sure was better than mucking across the swampy bottom land.

Milking her was always a treat. She had extremely small teats, and even my small hands would not fit properly. Milking required a stripping motion that I believe left something to be desired on her part. She would fidget. She would prance about. She would step in the bucket. Every thing a cow is not supposed to do at milking time. If I showed any sign of irritation at her antics, she would kick. That cow could kick forwards, backwards, sideways, and had a special kick she invented herself that was a round house sort of motion that caught you right on top of the head when you were in the kneeling position for milking. As a young teenager there was nothing I liked more in the morning than to get a rock hard frozen tail up along side of my face just before time to get on the school bus. And there was no hiding the barnyard fragrance that goes along with the morning milk session. She was a blooded cow all right though, and gave almost five gallons of milk per day. Just what we needed.

Betsy became lonely, it seemed, and one day a Shetland Pony stud joined her. His name was Sparky, and he lived up to his name. He was every young cowboy’s dream. He was perfectly formed, and just the right size for us. (Not too far to the ground) He became a fast friend with Betsy, and they hung out together constantly. He even took on some of her superstitious ways. He was friendly enough when he wanted to be ridden, but if he decided that he had had enough, then look out. The first sign of too much was a stiff legged, bone-jarring trot that would shake your insides loose. If this didn’t convince you that the days ride was over he would just put his head down and plant all fours at a gallop. You can imagine the result. It was here that I learned a very important lesson in equestrian etiquette. Never let loose of the reins for any reason, under any circumstance. If this happens, then you have to chase the horse on foot until he wants to be caught to take the bridle off. Even if you are done riding for the day. Sparky would rear up on command, just like Roy Rogers’s horse Trigger. It was truly impressive to city kids. He was the second to join our little animal kingdom menagerie. We had many more horses and cows, and goats, sheep, pigs, and a pack of dogs over time.