Flash-Back Friday, guest author MDH - Hating Miss Daisy or The Day the Cow Went Berserk

Written for English 111, WSU, 1995

I didn't always hate cows. At one time in my life I used to enjoy going to my Grandfather's farm and watching him take care of his dairy cattle. He seemed to have a way with animals and they always seemed to act just the way he wanted them to. No, my hatred for the bovine started to develop the day my dad brought home the creature that would change my mind forever about cows. At first she seemed like any other farm animal and we called her Daisy. I guess in all reality she never really had an official name. My mom had always made sure that all our pets had a name. But because our cow was kept so far away from the house, we simply called her The Cow. It wasn't a very creative name, but it fit. I think the Daisy part came from my little sister, but I can't be sure. All The Cow ever was to me was the animal I had to feed and water twice a day, nothing more than another chore on my list of things to do around the farm. It wasn't that big of a responsibility until the calves were born.

The calves were born in early spring. This was the first time I got an indication that there was something not right with this animal. She gave birth to twins right in the muddiest part of the corral. This meant that we would have to act fast to help them out so they could stand up. It wouldn't have been that hard except for Daisy. She wouldn't let us near those calves. She was a very protective mother so we just had to stand by and wait. Miraculously, they survived. I didn't know it at the time but I would live to experience her motherly protection of those calves first hand.

My responsibilities changed once the calves were born. Now I would have to accompany my older brother, once in the morning and once at night, to the milk barn. There, he would squeeze enough milk out to fill two quart-sized bottles. I would then take those two bottles, attach the corresponding nipple-lids and head out to feed the calves. It was a necessity for me to get the calves fed before my brother finished milking because our calf pen was in the middle of the corral, and we were all afraid that our cow would go insane if she saw us within even thirty feet of her babies. We were right.

This particular day I had taken the first two quarts as usual. The calves were happy enough to see me and quickly drained the milk from the bottles. I enjoyed this part of my job. The calves were just finishing their dinner when I heard the most terrifying groan I had ever heard. A groan only a serial killer victim or an angry cow could make. Unfortunately for me it was the latter.

By the time I turned to see her coning it was almost too late. I froze for an instant. My ten year old mind tried to figure out what would be the best course of action. Then something in the back of my mind yelled, "run!" I was no match for Daisy. I took a few feeble steps toward the fence surrounding the pasture. I felt like I had been the victim of a cruel plot. It was like one of those dreams where the monster can run three thousand miles per hour, and you can run about the speed of a Galapagos Tortoise. She was close enough now that I could see the hate in her eyes. I was sure that my mom would cry when she found my crumpled up, pitiful, cow-trodden body. The cow lowered her head and seemed to take strength from the fear that must have been evident in my face. I braced myself for the worst. I tried to remember what I had seen Bugs Bunny do in similar situations. Unfortunately, it was too late. Her head hit me square in the stomach.

I don't remember whether it hurt or not. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe the surprise of being hit by a cow, whatever it was, I knew that Sir Isaac Newton had been right. Objects in motion do tend to stay in motion unless acted on by an outside force. My outside force just happened to be the wire fence surrounding the pasture. In some amazing way, that cow had hurled my body a distance that any college football field-goal kicker would be proud of. The fence recoiled at the weight of my body. I looked up to see the cow racing toward me for another try. I didn't have to think about what to do this time. With Olympic-like skill I leapt over the fence. the cow saw the top strand of barbed-wire and quickly halted her attack. She sauntered back over to her babies as though it was an ordinary occurrence for her to chase blond-headed pre-teens out of cow pastures.

I stood up and shook the dust off my corduroy toughskins pants. Had what just happened really happened? Yes, it had. In some way that cow had declared war. I wouldn't soon forget this experience because she had picked the wrong skinny farm boy to bully, this time.

Through the years our battles continued. I learned from that experience that I would never again think of cows as "dumb animals." they were definitely a worthy adversary, and I took every opportunity to have my revenge in the years to come.