Milking the Cows

The morning air felt chilly when he climbed out of bed. He dressed silently so as not to wake up the sleeping family. The floorboards creaked as he headed down the hallway. The backdoor squeaked. That door needs an oil, but there’s always some distraction, he thought. The outside light clicked. He limped down the wooden steps into the enclosed back porch made of wood. He pulled on his rubber boots and stepped outside into the darkness.

He stopped and felt the cool breeze against his face. In the distance, the cows mooed. They knew he was on his way. He walked across the paddock, and the grass was wet and slushy. His dogs barked running towards the milking shed ahead of him. They were ready for the morning roundup. He could see the milking shed made of corrugated tin with wooden supports. A water tank filled with cold water sat near the entrance.

The birds chirped as it started to become light, in anticipation of the sunrise signalling in a new day. The dogs rounded up the cows, and one by one they moved into the milking bays. First, he milked the cows by hand before placing on the suction cups. When the cow was milked, he pulled the rope that opened the wooden door, and the cow leaped out into the paddock. Whenever a cow raised its tail, he knew to take a step backward and wait unless he wanted to be splattered. 

In the big stainless steel vat, the milk spun round and round. The frothy cream rose to the top. Soon, the milk truck would arrive to pick up the milk to take it to the processing plant. Then he would need to come back to clean and sterilise the vat. He scooped some milk into a metal jug to take with him back to the farmhouse. As he opened the kitchen door bacon and eggs waffled towards him. Time for him to sit down for a well-earned breakfast.

Jennifer Empey