I recently read the poem, “God Created a Ranch Wife.”  It is a great tribute to all the things expected of a ranch wife that are often taken for granted.  If you haven’t read it, I suggest it.  I admire all the women I see who are out there irrigating, pulling calves, driving tractors, and running ranches either on their own or along side their husbands.  But, there’s another kind of ranch wife, the “new to the ranch life wife.” And that is the category I fall into.  Prime example—the day I had to milk the cow.  

Larry, Emma, and Ethan took off to go riding.  So, that left the two babies and myself at home to do the morning chores.  Not usually a big deal, except we just bought a milk cow the day before.  You should know, before I got married (a mere nine years ago), I had never driven a tractor, or a truck, or milked a cow. 

“Not a big deal,” I keep telling myself.  “You watched last night.  You can do this.”  Well, after an hour of procrastination, I admit to myself–I’m scared to death of cows.  Yes, I love them and I have been around them my whole life, but I’ve always had a fear of them.  They are huge and this new milk cow is ginormous.  

I load the kids in the car and drive up to the corrals.  Upon entering the corrals, I go to face Buttercup and try to make peace and friendship, begging her not to hurt me and just nicely go to the chute for me so the little calves can have some breakfast.  I go set the chute up and finally let open Buttercup’s pen.  I back up to give her room to flee, but she just stands there, looking at me.  “I know you are huge, and smart, and can just run over me if you want, Buttercup, but please just make your way, slowly so I have time to get around the chute if you will, so we can chalk this up to success.”  

“Nope,” she says.  “I have decided I like this pen.  It’s peaceful.  I have feed and water and I have decided to stay.”

So I eventually go into the pen and amazingly, she heads right to the chute.  “Awesome,” I cheer.  

She heads into the alleyway and right up to, but not into the chute.  She stops, she backs up, she leaves the chute.  I walk cautiously behind her, coaxing her forward, and put a board behind her just before the chute so she can’t back up on me again.  Then around to the front and try to convince her that everything will be okay.  She will actually feel better once we get some of that milk out of her.  I try to bond with her, mother to mother.  And slowly, she walks forward the last few steps.  (Okay, I put some grain there for her.  I’m not a cow whisperer.)

Great.  Now for the calves.  I’m pretty confident about the calves.  They are much smaller.  So I open the gate to Buttercup and open the pen the calves are in and . . . . . . . . .they take off–happy to enjoy the new, bigger pen and wanting nothing at all to do with Buttercup or me.  I chase them around the pen (won’t be needing to get my PiYo in this morning, these calves are showing me how to really burn some calories).  They refuse to go near Buttercup.  Out of the fence they go!  The little buggers found a hole.  Crap.  I huff and puff, hands on my knees, and try to think of how to get them in.  Lightbulb!!  I run to the house, grab a calf bottle, and head back up.  It works.  They follow the bottle to the cow and, bam, one calf sucks while the other takes off again.  

Not to be defeated, I decide to milk the cow into the bottle and still get the other calf fed.  Now, though, I actually have to milk the cow.  

Have I mentioned how huge this cow is?  Deep breath.  Talk nice to her.  “Buttercup, please don’t kick me.  You are such a beautiful cow.  I just have to feed this other baby.  We are going to be such great friends.”  

After a time, she quits moving around, finds a comfortable position, and lets me get some milk.  Every little move she makes causes me to jump back, splashing milk, and having to start all over.  “You can’t quit,” I keep telling myself, “That calf needs to eat still.”  So I keep going until the bottle is full.  Then I fill another little bucket.  And, an hour later, I have milked the cow!  “See,” I tell my two babies, “your mom can do this!!  Maybe by the time I’m sixty, I’ll have the skills of a county girl, too.”