Meditations with Cows: What I've Learned from Daisy, the Dairy Cow Who Changed My Life
272
Meditations with Cows: What I've Learned from Daisy, the Dairy Cow Who Changed My Life
272Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Although there are nearly 100 million cattle in the United States, these animals are often ignored or dismissed. In Meditations with Cows, Shreve Stockton inspires a more reverential attitude toward these affectionate and intelligent creatures as she shares captivating stories and photos of ranch life.
At the center of the narrative is Daisy, the matriarch of the herd. Through the daily ritual of milking, Stockton forges a relationship with Daisy that deepens with each passing season: "When you have a milk cow, you are together every day, no matter the weather, no matter either of your moods. The hind leg of this twelve-hundred-pound animal towers over you as you crouch beside her... both of you aware of the fact that one well-aimed kick could kill you if she wished. Yet you are allowed to rest your cheek and forehead against her warm belly as you milk... her trust in you entwined with your trust in her, you become family."
For anyone who loves animals or cares about the environmental impact of their food, Stockton explores conservation and the important role of cattle in local ecosystems, models the humane treatment of animals, and shows how pastured cattle can be our allies in averting climate crisis. Blending together narrative, science, and thoughtful reflection, Meditations with Cows offers a moving portrait of the rhythms of work, life, and hardship on the ranch.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780593086681 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 02/08/2022 |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Sales rank: | 440,240 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.90(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.90(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
I dreamed of having a dairy cow when I was a teenager, incongruous as it was to my wanderlust. I dreamed of having a dairy cow when I lived in the city, impractical as that would have been. When I read a New Yorker profile on a cow-milking, cheese-making nun while sitting on my roof in San Francisco, part of me longed to be her (minus the piousness). And while this longing began as a fanciful wish, it was also rooted in the practical. I found raw milk more nourishing and easier to digest than conventional pasteurized milk, preferred it enough to find a black market source for raw milk as soon as I moved to Wyoming. At the time, buying and selling raw milk, fresh from a cow or goat, was illegal in the state, as it still is in many others.
But first I had to find a dairy cow. The ranches in my county were home to beef cattle, and my illicit milk came from goats. I asked my veterinarian if he knew of anyone with a dairy cow for sale. He put me in touch with Lynn, the owner of a small commercial dairy a hundred miles to the north, who was selling several cows that did not produce as much milk as the rest of his herd. A “low producer” in the eyes of a dairy was perfect for me, so Mike and I drove out with the horse trailer in tow. Lynn gave us a full tour of the dairy—the milking parlor lined with stanchions and milking machines, the cooling and storage facility that housed enormous stainless-steel holding tanks of milk. Then he led us outside to meet the cows.
We were immediately approached by a huge white cow with dark brown eyes and a tuft of blond hair on the top of her head. As she strode up to us, Lynn introduced her as Daisy. Though the rest of the cows at the dairy were known by numbers, Daisy was so charming they had named her. “We’re awful fond of her,” Lynn said as he casually rubbed her back, “but she only averages five gallons of milk a day, which is half of what our other cows produce, and we just can’t afford to keep her.” Daisy reached out to sniff my neck, then looked down her nose at me, sunlight glinting off her long, white eyelashes. I offered her my hand to smell and she ignored it.
Daisy was three years old, three-quarters Brown Swiss and one-quarter Jersey. She’d had her second calf a few months earlier, so she was producing milk, and she was pregnant again, due in December. Like all mammals, dairy cows make milk when they have babies. While beef cows in Wyoming are bred to calve (give birth to their calves) in the spring, dairies stagger their calving throughout the year so they have a consistent supply of milk to sell year-round. Lynn led us farther into the corrals to show us half a dozen other cows, all statuesque black-and-white Holsteins. Daisy swaggered along confidently beside us while Lynn pointed out cows and rattled off the statistics of milk production and age.
After making a large loop through the corrals, we returned to the main gate, Daisy still beside us. Lynn and Mike looked at me expectantly, awaiting my verdict. Did I want one of these cows, or did I want to keep looking? And if I did want one of them, which one? Daisy held me in her gaze as my mind raced through the information I’d just heard. I had never met a dairy cow prior to this excursion. I’d done some research online, but I had no experience from which to make this decision. So I made the decision the way I make my best decisions. I went with my intuition. I went with Daisy.
We went to Lynn’s office to do the paperwork, then everyone at the dairy came out to say farewell to Daisy before we loaded her in Mike’s horse trailer. They were genuinely sad to see her go. We drove home slowly, past the patchwork of sugar beet and barley fields, along the sparkling river lined with trees unfurling in blossoms and leaves, to the rust red buttes of home. We pulled up to Mike’s corral in early afternoon. I wanted to give Daisy a few days in the corral to get used to me and adjust to her new home before letting her roam Mike’s property. Daisy sauntered from the trailer and began exploring the corral, sniffing out her new surroundings. “You have a cow!” Mike said, hugging me.
***
The mechanics of extracting milk turned out to be surprisingly easy to figure out. It was not a straight squeeze; more like the movement of rapidly rapping your fingers on a desk, yet doing so while your hand is in a fist. But the act of milking was considerably slower than I’d anticipated. My hands tired quickly, and I milked with one hand at a time so the alternate hand could rest. Daisy was patient with me. She expressed minor discomforts by shifting her weight. I soon realized that when she had her weight on the hind leg by which I sat, it was impossible for her to kick me without first shifting her weight to the other leg, and understanding this helped me begin to relax. But I was overly paranoid. Though she swatted her tail in annoyance when I accidentally pulled her udder hair when grasping a fresh teat, she was calm throughout my fumbling and never did kick.
I sipped some of her fresh milk as I worked. Sweet and frothy, it was the same temperature as the interior of my mouth. It comforted me, calmed the panic that began to rise as the sun began to set. I was sitting in the dirt, two teats into a four teat job, and it was about to get dark. I wondered if perhaps I was in over my head. A few slow sips of Daisy’s milk reminded me that I was sitting in the dirt beside a beautiful white cow and she was letting me learn how to milk.
Milking is both ritual and chore, which extends beyond the actual act of milking. There is the washing of the milk pail and filter and glass storage jars every day. There is the cow wrangling and the udder washing and the post-milking thank-you brushing of the cow. There is the toting of the milk pail and cup and brushes and washcloths and warm soapy water and hay and treats to the milking area, and the lugging of it all, plus twenty pounds of milk, back home again when done (but for the water, hay, and treats). And there is the task of making sure the cow is peaceful and happy or distracted and entertained while she is being milked and, even if she is none of those things, that she at least stands still.
I found myself in awe of the intimacy of milking, of the relationship that Daisy and I forged through this daily routine, of the connection inherent in the act. When you have a milk cow, you are together every day, no matter the weather, no matter either of your moods. The hind leg of this twelve-hundred-pound animal towers over you as you crouch beside her, her hoof solid as stone, both of you aware of the fact that one well-aimed kick could kill you if she wished. Yet you are allowed to rest your cheek and forehead against her warm belly as you milk. Your breathing syncs with hers. Her teats in your hands, her milk in your fridge, her trust in you entwined with your trust in her, you become family.
Table of Contents
Part I
Chapter 1 Becoming Family 3
Chapter 2 Harmony and Hope 25
Chapter 3 Communicating with Cattle 41
Chapter 4 Belonging to a Place 67
Part II
Chapter 5 Nature as a Model 99
Chapter 6 Flint and Pyrite, Stone and Steel 115
Chapter 7 A Reflection of the Culture 139
Part III
Chapter 8 An Unsteady Faith 169
Chapter 9 Ritual Work 189
Chapter 10 The 1% of Cows 207
Chapter 11 Meditations with Cows 233
Acknowledgments 251
References 253