I thought I had made friends with a cow.
I had no business making friends with a cow. I already have too many animal friends.
But she was so nice. She came up to the fence and looked at me. She had beguiling eyes with long lashes, an enormous, pretty face and felty, floppy ears. She had a soft pink nose. She was very pretty.
I patted her. She liked it. I liked her. She lives in the neighbour’s paddock, over the fence, which is fairly wonky, from Apple Tree Paddock. I went and got her some apples. She was very happy. She waggled her long tail – although that might have been due to flies interested in investigating her bum.
When Miles the sheep farmer arrived the next day, I happened to be in Apple Tree Paddock. I was out there feeding the pet ewes sheep nuts, vegetable peelings and apples. I was also feeding my new friend, who I had named, in the interim, while waiting for inspiration, Mrs Moo Cow. I introduced her to Miles. “I have a new friend,” I announced. “A cow friend.”
Miles does deadpan like nobody else. I did notice his beard twitch a bit. I put this down to him thinking the mad woman from the city was once more being dotty about farm animals.
I tell everyone who is interested, which is just about nobody, that I am now a farmer. I strut about in my gumboots and sheep-chewed shorts pretending I am a farmer. I have been pretending to be a farmer for almost eight years now.
Oh, all right. There was that time I walked into Miles’ milking shed and, faced with stalls of sheep with their arses to me, said, “Hello, ladies.” He says he and the sheep vet, who was there to examine the rams’ bollocks, still dine out on that one. But I have come on, farming-wise, a long way since then. Or so I claim.
One morning last week in Apple Tree Paddock, where Miles’ favourite sheep, and ours, Blackie – a very elderly 11-year-old – has been living out her retirement with us, I found her lying under the gum trees. It was not unusual to find her lying down; it is very tiring being an 11-year-old ewe. She had been the most placid and affectionate of sheep, but I couldn’t get her to stand up. I phoned Miles in a panic. “Blackie’s down! I can’t get her up on her feet!”
We had been dreading her impending demise for weeks. Miles arrived with the trailer to take her back to the home farm and that inevitable end. I said my goodbyes. He got her on her feet and she wandered off and ate some apples. She was actually full of beans, if elderly beans. Today, she ate a whole bucket of sheep nuts.
Greg said, “It wasn’t that she couldn’t get up. She just didn’t want to get up.” This pretend farmer is an idiot. But we already knew that, didn’t we?
Greg accompanied me out to Apple Tree Paddock to get a picture of my new cow friend. She ate some apples. “Isn’t she nice?” I said.
“That’s not a cow,” he said. “That’s a steer. Stay away from it.” There was a recent news story about an obviously terrified steer that escaped from the Frankton stockyards and made its way to a house in Hamilton, where it knocked down and badly injured a man on his deck. Then it chased his daughter into the house, where she barricaded herself in a room and dialled 111. It was a traumatic ordeal. But it was also a traumatic ordeal for the poor beast.
I am now a bit wary of my cow friend who turns out not to be a cow. I still give him apples, but at arm’s length. I sent a text to Miles: “Ahem. My new friend the cow turns out not to be a cow. But you probably already knew that.”
He replied: “Yep.”
On Monday, Blackie’s health declined. Miles came and took her to back to the home farm. He sent a message: She has gone to greener pastures above.
