At 5 p.m. the sun’s shadow crosses half of the veranda
That’s when women begin to prepare dinner
And the boy boils water for the cows’ teats
They love a teat massage with warm water
Before one can start pulling hard for the milk
The sun is soft on my shoulders
I follow the boy to the cows shed
He stands with his cans and calls the cows
They’re 250 meters away but they hear him
Ish ish ish-ish ish ish, phi-phew, he whistles
I try it one time but the cows don’t come
Maybe they recognize fake
Hanging on their right earlobes are yellow cards
I get close thinking it’s some voice recognition software
But it’s just their ID numbers
I pick a can and go to the youngest-looking black & white
I’ve never milked a cow but after many times of watching I want to try
How else can one learn anyway?
‘Dat one kicks.’
The boy picks for me an old-looking Guernsey
She keeps whisking her tail, chasing the flies sleeping on her huge body
Her eyes don’t look friendly. They are sad, deep brown and watery
I wonder what’s making her cry
Does she miss her children?
Could she recognize them?
Would her sons and grandsons be more interested in climbing her?
How many has she got? I ask the boy
‘Four like da rest. Whatchu tink?’
The kids, I mean.
‘Want to milk her or not?’
Her teats are very long, her udder large and uneven
Like a map of the United States
I wet her teats with warm water
Relax, I talk to her
Years ago my uncle had tins of milking salve
I prefer the warm water
I’m touching, stroking, pulling softly
A tiny drop falls
‘Make sure to pull hard,’ the boy says
He knows how to apply both hands
I wonder if I should do the same
I pull the first two that look like Texas and Florida
The milk comes, not much, but it excites me
Creamy rich is the color I see
I get a liter and my arms hurt, but I’m happy
I think I’ve got all there is, I tell the boy
He finishes his cow and comes to mine
He pulls and the milk gushes out
I’m in awe. He gets about four liters
He says it used to be his best cow
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