* Our Cow Named Camille *

†

Remembering Camille

I have not always been a cowgirl, though I surely consider myself one today after having lived six years with Camille the milk cow. The little burnished red Jersey/Shorthorn cross heifer stepped onto this farm one sunny day, batted her long lashes as she took in the scene around her, and by the end of her earthly sojourn owned both me and the entire farm. I digress...

This is a true saga. It tells of a meaningful relationship between a farmer's wife and her milk cow. I write it not only to alleviate the pain I'm feeling right now, but, ultimately with the hope that this story might touch someone else whose heart has been rent in twain by the untimely death of a beloved animal. I will always have with me the incredibly happy memories, and for this I am grateful. Now I begin...

*****

Camille, the little red heifer with the big brown eyes, my milk cow, my friend, died last night. I'll be crying while I write. If this were ink on papyrus, it would no doubt be smudged and unreadable in places just like scholars say the original manuscript of Handel's Messiah was. As it stands now, I can wipe the plastic keys of this computer off.

I'll begin at the genesis. Conversations between myself and Stan (the head of this here ranch in southern Oregon who jest happens to be my husband of 23 plus years and counting) began one fine day to be centered around the idea of my acquiring a milk cow. Being a woman of a conniving nature, I began by attempting to appeal to his stomach, for mama always said a man could be mightily swayed through intestinal means. I asked him, "pretty please with organic strawberries and fresh unpasturized cream on top" (attempting to appease the demon of organic health food that always hung around him), "could I have a cow?"

Stan's word is always either "yay" or "nay". He leaves very little room for ambiguity and makes getting my own way a monumental task. "Do you know what keeping a cow will entail?", he tapped his mighty index finger against the tiled kitchen table for emphasis.

"I might be getting somewhere," my mind discoursed with itself. "He hasn't shouted a loud "NO!" yet, nor slammed his fist down for emphasis." I wrapped my arms around his neck like a Hawaiian lei, leaning close. The stars in my eyes twinkled merrily. There it was again, the pastoral scene. How to convey it to this man of steel.

Of course I knew what having a milk cow entailed! My dreams always showed me swathed in calico, petticoats flying with every long stride, swinging a stainless steel milk bucket at my side. In these dreams a placid milk cow was always grazing in a wide green pasture, bending her head low and lifting twining purple vetch with a supple tongue.

But, to be truthful with the reader, something less ephemeral, less romantic set hard inside of me, also. I could not shake the idea that this could be no true homestead without a milk cow in its midst. I was ready for butter churning and gallons of frothy white milk, rich with cream. I was ready to pour for my friends steamy black java, ladeling cream into its fragrant midst, so that they languished for heaven.

I twirled with my finger one of Stan's golden locks. My eyes were now glazed in rapture. But the man was not easily vanquished. Again the question to the witness on the stand: "Do you know what keeping a cow will entail?"

Finding reality a bit weighty, but coming back at the sound of my name, I replied.

"Yes – a heavy, tight milking schedule. I'd have to be here all the time, just like when we've kept milk goats – because you can't skip a milking. Her udder would nearly burst with the weight of all that milk..."

He looked at me squarely. That was precisely the answer he wanted. Unconvinced, though, that reality had actually found a way into the romanticized mind of his wife, his foot still rode the brake pedal. I got nowhere that day. With time, though, my persistence paid off. One day he reluctantly agreed to my desire to purchase a milk cow.

Now, you don't go shopping for a milk cow at K Mart. Costco does not carry them either. They're not easy to obtain, at least not a good one. We're headin' into the 21st century, folks, and cows are a commodity that only the ancients are acquainted with - the ancients and a few poor deluded farmers like Stan and I. Our first attempt to find a milk cow (through a classified ad) met with failure. For insurance, I took along with me the 77 year old farm wife who lived across the street who, quite bluntly, knew her milk cows. Stan drove, I sat in the middle, and she on my right. She was a bulwark of knowledge, yes she was. "Yep, I know my milk cows," she insisted. I grinned wide and was glad she was with us, for I knew absolutely NUTHIN' about milk cows.

She continued her medley. "Well, honey, I'm glad you think you want a milk cow – but I'm telling you, I know when they have the mastitis and if these folks want to sell that Jersey fer such a price, she probably has the mastitis."

"How would we know, Roma?" I questioned like a blonde.

"Oh, I'll know all right. I'll know."

Well, we no sooner stepped out of the truck and onto that spacious green lawn and met the citified looking woman whose own eyes showed hardly a glimmer of the dreamy stars they'd no doubt once possessed, when my broker smelled "the mastitis." I don't even think my neighbor needed to see that poor little Jersey. I could tell by the squint of her eye that she perceived witchcraft and treachery in the makin's. The little lady selling the cow hadn't a chance, I could tell already. In spite of the fact her mind was made up, all four of us went into the confines of that rattle trap barn, sinking our heels in muck. The seller put a tether on her cow and brought Bossie to us.

My accomplice looked at me sideways like a football coach calling a secret play. "The mastitis, shore ‘enuff" she hissed, as the seller of the nice looking Jersey turned her back to find some alfalfa. Roma leaned over and pointed to one of the quarters on the cow's rounded udder which she claimed was lumpy and caked. It looked just hunky dory to me, of course, but the fact that I whispered that back only aggravated her. "All you kids are alike! Ya know nuthin' at all about keeping cows and poor things always end up gettin' the mastitis..." We left the poor seller standing in her driveway. I gave her an apologetic goodbye while I shrugged my shoulders meaningfully and told her I would call her if I decided to buy the Jersey.

Time to put it into gear and go into phase two of my plan, I reckoned. Folks had been telling us that buying a young heifer and raising her ourselves would be better than buying someone else's milk bucket headache. Reasonable enough. "Auction time" I determined with passion. So, Stan and I became "regulars" at the Thursday livestock auction. One sunny Thursday before the fast paced chant began and all eyes focused on the tall man up front with the big Stetson on his head , I gazed around me at the farm wives settling down in the bleachers. Some of them fluffed calico pillows against the back of their chairs, this Thursday rendezvous being the highlight of their week. Others, seasoned and wise to the ways of the auction, came only for a good laugh at the buyers, no matter the seat.

About the cow I knew the ones to ask. I looked for the ones whose arms were bulging from wrestling many an udder in a past life, whose faces were creased with laugh lines and mellowed by time. I chose Shorty's wife that day. Shorty was himself a cow rancher, always couched into that front auction pew. If there were somethin' to bid on, he'd barely lift that shiny metal hook attached to his wrist (must have caught that hand of his in some whirling farm implement.) The auctioneer knew Shorty and always saw the glint of Shorty's metal if it were raised up a tad. I skirted around Captain Hook's pointed boots jutting into the aisle between the bawling day old calf ring and bleachers, and cornered his wife.

"Emma Lou, howdy!" She smiled a nice hello. I asked her if she knew of any milk cows for sale. She looked me up and down, saw my Birkenstock sandals and I swear, she snickered. As though I were in Cow Catechism class I assured her then and there, from pangs of conscience detecting her skepticism, that I was ready for a cow, yep, sure as shootin' ready. Well, she said she'd keep her eyes peeled. Good enough. I swaggered away, as much as Birkenstocks will allow a person to swagger.

A lightbulb flashed in my mind. "Rosie!" Rosie, the little German gal, always sat on the padded seat next to Shorty, for she was a friend of the farmer and his wife. Her words were always laced thickly with guttural German, like sour brauten. I knew she bought and sold livestock for a living. I asked, but she knew of no little future milkers. I nodded numbly at that dead end road sign. Looking up, there was Stan motioning me to a bleacher above. Hands were already going up for the raucous calves holding tails high while streams of liquid bull's eyed unsuspecting ring mates. I plopped myself next to my husband, glancing for a moment at the cowboys sitting behind us. Their soiled wide brimmed hats, dirty fingernails and strong odored boots betrayed their livelihoods.

Venturing forth without thinking, I turned around. "Hello, I'm in the market for a milk cow. You guys know of any?"

I must admit that there's a certain mistrusting jaundiced eye that one cultivates after being taken to the cleaners at auction a few times too many. In a twinkling I knew better than to have asked that guy, but the question had already stumbled out, like hitting the "enter" key on a computer and sending a message ya wish ya hadn't sent. His smile was too sweet and those lashes blinked just a bit too hard fer m'liking. I held onto my purse tightly.

"Well, actually", he drawled with perfect sincerity, the wad of chewing tobacco wedged tightly under his bottom lip, "I do have a milk cow I'd sell to ya..." The cowboy next to him looked at me to see if I'd bite the hook.

"What is she, Jersey?" I queried as though I were interested.

"Nope, she's a holstein/angus cross – but boy howdee, does she put out the milk! Five gallons a milking if you decide to milk two tits and save the other two for later..." he whistled for emphasis. The man next to him then nodded his head up and down like a puppet.

Well, who did he think he was talkin' to, ennyways! I weren't no greenhorn, no sirree, not me, Roma's neighbor! "She got the mastitis, mebbe?" I smiled back with a knowing look, took his number and said I'd call. But I knew I was not interested in an angus cross, anyway. I could only envision myself chasing a wild stampeding cow with pendulous udder, crazed eyes wide open (mine, not hers) and I was not ready for those kind of dreams comin' true...

Stan's advice began to chime with Roma's. "If you get a little day old heifer, she will cost us less and we can raise her from the bottle. She'll get to know us. You can halter train her from the get-go. By the time she's milking age, you'll have yorself a good, reliable cow." I nodded and sighed. It only made sense.

It wasn't long. Two or three auction Thursdays later, the little German gal approached me. Her accent was so thick that I had to lean forward into the conversation and try to interpret.

"I'm raisink khalves end khave a kwhole passel of milkh khow khalves khright now."

Each syllable was thicker than liverwurst on a slab of black rye. I suddenly knew that my prayers had been answered. After the auction ended, we drove over to KhRosie's neat as a pin homestead tucked away in those happy Eagle Point foothills. In a long barn, we walked midst a stretch of stalls. Each one contained a little heifer in its hay bedded interior, a heat lamp stretched low overhead. Rosie ran around the joint feeding each calf a bottle of milk replacer or Kaopectate, depending on the calf's stools. We saw little red speckled heifers and dark burnished red heifers with white blazes on their faces. Three weeks old, they mooed in soprano when we bent over and pet their heads.

I liked the speckled ones, but I told Stan it was his choice. He kept looking longingly into one stall at a deep red coated heifer who was looking back at him with big brown eyes framed with cumbersome lashes. "I like this one," he called me over. I looked at her and did not care to stretch taut my moment of victory, lest it snap. I gladly concurred with him. "We'll take this one, Rosie." I was again dreaming of lazy green fields and a stainless steel milk bucket against a backdrop of calico, and no one could pull me from my reveries as that little heifer was tied securely into the back of the pick up that springtime afternoon.

I don't know what prompted me to name her Camille except for the inane reason that I'd read a pioneer saga wherein there was a little girl nick named "Meelie" in the story and I loved that shortened name. From day one on our southern Oregon homestead, Camille the cow was known simply as "Meelie." In time, the little heifer grew to be of age. The day of her first breeding arrived, and she let us know she was ready for a bull. She was, as the farmers politely call it, "bullin'", which means that people from miles away could hear her shouting at the top of her lungs. This went on for quite a few hours until she was croaking like a frog from vocal chord stress, but still crying out for a bull. My book said we had but a couple of hours to make it to a bull in time.

The neighbor's big red Santa Gertrudes bull lived about a half a mile away. Stan and I put the halter on our horny little gal and walked her down the highway to the neighbor's gate. The bull had been expecting her, the red bull as large as a railroad car. He stood firmly planted on the other side of the metal gate, his nostrils flaring and his beady black eyes watching for a way to dispatch us and get the cow. Stan squeezed open the gate and pushed Camille inside. She stood seductively in front of the monstrous bull while he snorted his greetings.

Then the demure Camille surprised us. She flirted a bit with the bull next to her, but then shifted a steady gaze back at Stan on the other side of the gate. It became apparent that her intention was to go off with the "better" man. Stan conceded without lifting a hand against the bull and she was heart broken. "Sorry, Meelie, I don't think I could take him on..." my husband sheepishly admitted. Camille gave Stan a look of contempt and marched off with the Santa Gertrudes, not looking back.

Nine months later the first little calf was born on the farm. She was a beauty and we had a willing buyer. With the advent of a calf came the gallons of milk topped with plenty of sweet cream. We were able to assess the taste and quality of her milk and in time I could not keep up with the customers who adored its sweetness. The butterballs wrapped in foil were stored in the freezer. Summer's strawberries were slathered, just like in my dreams. The pastoral scene was at full tilt boogie.

Winter brought Oregon's usual rains and our barn soon looked to be sinking fast to the middle of the earth. My daily jaunts to milk the cow became a standoff with Oregon mud. The muck was like the LaBrea Tarpits I recalled as a child where fossilized bones were extracted from hard clay that had once been mud in prehistoric times. I envisioned my own skeleton someday encased way down there, my grave marker a metal bucket afloat on top.

With the rains, my calico garments became yellow rubber ducky suits. Sandals had long been exchanged for Oregon rainboots which never stayed on my feet anyway, one or the other sucked into the mud unless I was quick to manually extract it. One step at a time, one day at a time, I would promise myself as the temptation to take the next flight to Bermuda pounded at my brain. My hair lay limp and wet against my head and the sound of Oregon pounded steadily on the metal roof. I'd grit my teeth. "C'mon over here, gal..." The cow and I would talk about Oregon behind its back and I'd milk the sweet white liquid into the bucket. But, seasons change and the sun finally does shine in Oregon after all. That little cow began in earnest to become a friend to me. Now, a person might question, "how could a cow become a friend?" Ask any farmer's wife – I betcha you'd hear a similar retort as I'm about to give.

There were many times out there in that little dairy shed where just that cow and me would talk things out. Actually, I'd do most'a the talkin' and she was always a fantastic listener. Early mornings found me looking forward to the quiet time I spent with Camille filling my bucket. Her red body was always warm on a winter morning, when the rain pounded like drums on the metal roof above us. And she'd pray with me, that gal would. I'd throw the coffee can measure of grain into her trough and lock her big red head into that stanchion, and then I'd sing. I'd sing happy songs and reverent songs, and I'd pray...and as she chewed on that three way cob, she'd never interrupt. No sirree, interruptions were not a part of her nature. I'd giddily bring a steamy cup of coffee out to the barn on other mornings and squirt in fresh cream, fighting cats under my skirts who wanted to be first in line. Mornings were lazy, carefree and frolicksome in that barn.

There were happy spring and summer days with clouds rolling over our heads and green pasture everywhere, so abundant that the cattle would lay down most of the day and chew cud, not interested in one more blade of succulent grass. Full to the brim, their distended bellies churned sounds. That's when I liked to lay my head down against Camille's belly and ponder. I'd lay there and think good and hard about things, sort things out a bit. Her fragrance was sweet clover on a breeze. I knew if Revlon ever perfected an aroma as subtle and sweet, they'd have to close out all their other brands.

There were times of dispute between she and I, also. For instance, there were times Stan and I would on rare occasions be late coming home. We'd been a'visitin' somewhere and the red car would be racing on a freeway when he'd look over at me or I'd summon him with a worried countenance. "She's mad. I can feel it, Meelie's mad." My heart would palpitate and Stan would push that gas pedal to the floor, and the psychic little milk cow would continue flinging darts right at me with rapid fire succession. She didn't like her milking schedule to be tampered with and yes, she had a temper and phenomenal psychic abilities.

The stars would be out, and I'd enter that green swinging Powder River gate at a face pace, all with trepidation. Trying to distract from my tardiness I'd sing-song, "Hello, Meeeee-lie!" All to no avail. Trying to placate a furious cow is not an easy task. I'd beg her forgiveness, but she would strut past me without even looking my way. I'd open the door to the shed and she'd march to her stall, still bull-whipping an angry tail me, hoping to extract an iris. "Woe, woe, woe," uttered the angel in the Book of Revelation. "Woe, woe, woe" shouted the silence between my milk cow and me on occasions where I showed up late for a milking. She would allow me to take her milk, but again – when I freed her neck from the stanchion - she'd be out of that shed on a run. It was like her to hold a grudge overnight, and sometimes longer. As far as she was concerned, I could sleep in the barn on nights like that.

Then there was the auspicious day that she and the"boys"(Stan's oxen) took me to their secret garden. I'd let them out of the fenced 35 acres to the far side of the pasture. They'd seemed content to graze the tall new spring grasses of late February, so I headed into the house to do some baking. Later I trekked to the pasture to check on the oxen and lone milk cow. They had vanished. Uzi, the white guardian dog and I searched for the crew. We found them in what Stan terms "the triangle", land in the shape of a pie wedge across the creek.

"Home, beasts!" I waved a staff over my head. The bovines, however, had evil intentions. They must have planned it all before I got there. The milk cow ran in one direction. Each ox, weighing one ton apiece, ran amuck in a separate direction. All three kicked up their heels. The more I tried to gather them together and run them home, the higher up the mountain they took me. Finally, in dense woods belonging to spotted owls, cougars and the U.S. Government, I decided to quit the fight. The horned threesome looked at me and kept climbing. The guardian dog seemed to know where they were going. He, too, seemed to be on a gentle stroll and in no hurry. The sun warmed my bones. I finally understood that I was to follow. Meelie led the way, and all of us climbed.

Suddenly, there it was - the ancient clearing. The cattle began to graze peacefully, their heavy heads drawn low onto a wide green expanse dotted with yellow buttercups. The grass was lush and thick. Meelie looked up at me, a long tongue curled around a shuck of green grass and smiled. "Like it?" she asked.

Love it, Meelie. Love it." I lay against a dead fall, the white guardian next to me, and let out my breath. I stretched my gaze and took it all in. The majesty of the Lord's creation was everywhere. Why we get so concerned about running through life at a miserable pace – why moments like these become treasures because there are so few – isn't that the question we all ask ourselves at times? I thanked all three bovines that day as we danced our way homeward, for showing me this place...

This summer Camille and I were on "vacation." She was going to have an early September calving and I dried her up a bit early. My vacation was splendid. Leisure evenings were spent writing. Mornings were spent with the goats, herding them into pastureland. The task of milking Camille was not difficult, but the freedom to not milk was blessed.

One recent late afternoon Stan reported, "The boys are down for their apples. Meelie is nowhere to be found." I did not even check on her when he told me – I was canning applesauce at the time and did not worry. The following morning I walked out to the green Powder River gate. Standing near the dairy shed was Camille, and by her side was a sturdy red calf. I laughed, found it was a little bull, and came in to report to my husband the good news.

Two days later I took her into the milking parlor. The calf butted her udder like a tetherball and I pushed him gently out of the way while I milked the frothy substance into my pail. Ahhh, it was good to be back at the regular routine. I let her out from the stall and perceived a bit of awkwardness in her hind quarters, but did not allow it to register. That evening the "boys" returned for their grain ration. I saw that Camille was missing but it was dark and I did not have any premonitions of an ill nature. I decided that when dawn broke I'd try to find her and her calf. Probably not far - just around the bend, I surmised.

The next morning I found the red cow quite a distance away, up by the upper pole barn on the back forty. She was standing still in the frigid morning air. I called her name. Her gait was unsteady when she attempted to move toward me. Her hind legs didn't act right at all. It registered then. Milk fever. The best milkers often get it. It's a disease that sucks the life right out of them, their calcium depleted by a hormonal imbalance in their bodies that won't right itself without veterinary assistance. I'd read all about it, but had never had to tackle it. I trotted down to the house and alerted my husband.

"I can't find the calf, Stan. I looked for some time – he's missing. We need to get this girl down, though. Milk fever. No time to lose."

After bringing her down to the dairy shed, the cow walking slower than a 90 year old woman on crutches, I ran over to Roma's house and asked the older woman to take a look. Six years ago Roma could outrun me. Today, her own heart is only working on two valves. She walked up that long driveway and I took her into the dairy shed, with her breathing as hard as the cow. Her assessment was more or less my own. "Milk fever, I think," she stated with no smile. "You have about eight hours."

In that time we called two different cities located on either side of our mountain enclave. One vet said he'd come out, but gave us a rough estimate of what the cost would be and we knew we could not afford his service. Another vet, in the city opposite, bluntly stated, "I'm not going to come that far!" There are benefits to living far from the maddening crowd - but there are also hindrances.

Stan and I fought our battle, together, alone. With tears in my eyes, I watched as my husband drove off to pick up medications from one big city or another. Maybe we'd be able to save our Camille ourselves, with the help of our God. Indeed, a miracle occurred that first evening. The little three day old calf was hardly a concern to us by then. The bear scat had been everywhere, fresh and soft with fruit, when we'd searched high and low for the calf up there on the mountain. We suspected the worst - taken by a bear we knew was living back there. Meelie, too sick to call out for her calf, lay still in a daze and I didn't think she even remembered she had a calf. After one final search right before the sun sank in the sky, I gave him up for dead.

I ran into the house at about 8:30 pm for a quick bite to eat before resuming my vigil with the cow. I only spent half an hour in the house, wanting to be with the cow struggling to live. I reentered the pasture on a run. When I shined the flashlight on her I could not believe what I was seeing. Standing in front of her was her little calf.

I called Stan outside, stretching the truth a bit. "Honey, you have to help me lift her. She's got herself in a precarious position." My heart was fluttering with excitement. When he gleamed that light on Meelie and the calf, he burst into tears and lifted his arms high, praising God. I knew in my heart that an angel scooted that calf all the way down the mountainside to the side of its mother. The angels around this homestead probably scratch their heads at times wonderin' about the demeanin' jobs they have. The same Lord who is aware of a sparrow falling to the ground - again - had mercy on this homestead.

So, Camille was able to see her calf one last time. It was then that I heard her ask me to take care of her boy. I told her I would. Meelie and I were used to conversing like that. We'd done so for years.

She lived through that first night. By morning I thought we had a dead cow when I anxiously gazed at her laying on the ground. But, she revived quickly when I righted her to a sitting position. There were many times I thought perhaps she was "pulling out of it". My hopes, though, were continually frustrated.

Stan and I continued our vigil with the cow and prayed. After all, Meelie was used to my prayers. I tried to be brave, not to weep, but I could not help myself. The day passed so slowly. She weakened steadily. That afternoon, as I sat there with her 150 pound head in my lap gently stroking its furry warmth, the song came. I sang out with joy. "Mee – lie". The voice I'd used countless times when she was at pasture – the voice that beckoned her home to the hearth, to the stanchion, to the milk bucket ritual. She knew the song and like the pied piper's flute, it always entranced her and brought her on a slow pace homeward. As I sang her name, her brown eyes fluttered open, and I knew she was in another world.

The tears were falling freely by then onto her giant head and I continued to sing her name. Though in reality she lay there, a great dead weight, in spirit we were transported. We were headed toward that secret garden. She was on a run, kicking up her heels like a calf let out of stall and I was behind her, calico skirts flying. We both danced in that meadow while I sang. There were butterflies overhead and the sound of Indian drums in the distance. Flutes played. All the sounds that lay in the heart of this land for centuries called us to the Dance...

No, Lord, no. I didn't want to let her go. I prayed for a miracle and wept freely. Why is it so hard to let go? The 12 o'clock hour comes to each one of us, but oh, the dread of that hour. The dread of the silence when the hour is past. The dread of the empty milk bucket...

By the end of that day it was apparent that we had lost the battle. She was going in and out of a comatose state. Stan, an EMT, inserted a needle into a vein that he finally was able to locate in her neck. The calcium solution slowly entered her body. But this should have been done long before then, we knew. It was a very late and dangerous treatment.

†

That evening, as the stars appeared, Stan asked me to bring him a sleeping bag, a blanket, and a wool hat that I had knit some years ago. He was going to camp out next to the old gal. I was tired and could hardly keep my eyes open, falling into a fitful sleep and glad that he was with her. I lay in the bed he had carved from Montana pine, quilts scattered about me. I waited for the door to open wide and for my tired husband to stagger in, for I knew he would any minute. At the 12 o'clock hour he did. I looked at the clock and both hands were upward. "She's gone," he sighed. We both held each other and drifted off to a restless slumber. The next morning I washed the milk bucket until it glistened and put it up on a shelf, like an ornament.

I didn't tell Stan, but I knew where she had gone. You see, I had left her dancing up on that meadow. While she danced, she kept threatening me that she was gonna do it. Kicking her heels higher and higher, she just kept laughing and threatening to do it. "No, Meelie - stay here with me!" She looked back at me and laughed again. Yep, she did it. She finally jumped over that moon.

†