Antonia is one of our oldest cows, and she is not due for two days. Alongside her, five heifers are due. So, when I planned for chaos, I expected it to come from the first-time mothers. But Antonia retains her capacity to surprise.

^{Antonia lost her ear tag years ago when her best friend, Dustie, sucked it out of her ear. Now she has a grizzled mountain woman look with a torn ear and a white slash on her forehead.}

Because I was not expecting her to calve, I went about my normal farm chores. I fetched the milk cows from the field, milked them, fed the yearlings and set up their new pasture, practiced taking three especially ungovernable heifers through the milking parlor. And by 10:30, I decided it was time to go check in with the older pregnant cows. Probably nothing was happening with them.

I loped out to the field in my slightly uncomfortable leather boots which are waterproof but too stiff. I was drenched in sweat, and my arms had more than the normal number of poo flecks on them. There were some big, splattery ones taken in the milking parlor this morning.

My mind was on the grapefruit sparkling water I had in the fridge. I got to drink it as soon as I finished this final task.

As I got to the opening of their gate, I noticed all the cows had their ears up. I thought perhaps they were tuned in to the screaming yearlings. Those cows had nothing to scream about- they had grain, grass, water, and shade. Maybe they were starting a band and doing warm up vocals.

Seeing the alert ears started a subconscious alarm in my mind. We have been dealing with a vulture problem recently.

Because many of the cows due this summer and fall are first time mothers, we hold more concern for the calves’ safety. First time mothers don’t always know they are supposed to protect their babies. I have seen a heifer headbutt her baby directly into the side of a wooden fence. The baby was fine, but they were immediately separated. So, when a cow has a surprise calf as heifers are wont to do, we try to get out to the field as fast as possible to protect the calf from many things ranging from predators to being accidentally trampled by their own mother.

But this season the biggest safety concern comes from above. The vultures have somehow cued into when a heifer is about to calve. They start to circle as she goes into labor, creeping earthward as the baby begins to emerge.

Our herd manager saw this phenomenon last week from her window and started running toward the field. Sure enough, Glenn had just had her baby, still gooey on the ground, and the vultures were licking their lips. Metaphorically.

So when I saw everyone’s ears alert and a few crows on the ground, I sped up. No one came towards me as I opened the gate. Abnormal. Antonia did not head for the barn where she knows she gets a little treat every day. Abnormal. And Crimson wasn’t watching me; her attention was turned toward the rest of the herd. Crimson loves to watch what I’m doing and try to get involved. Abnormal.

I genuinely felt my heart start beating faster, hoping that I hadn’t inadvertently caused a calf’s death by lollygagging through my chores this morning. But when I dropped below the hill and my sight line opened, my face split into a grin. Antonia had calved. And she is one of the best mothers a baby cow could ask for.

A vulture would have to have a death wish to try and attack Antonia’s baby.

I walked slowly toward them, talking to Antonia the whole time and monitoring her from my peripherals to see how she was feeling. She softly cooed to her calf, and I told her what an amazing job she had done.

Antonia is a caramel-colored cow. Classically Jersey with one small exception. She has a white bolt streaking across her forehead. And her baby looks just like her.

^{Perhaps her forehead spot will shrink with time to match her mother’s}

This is the first baby girl of the season which means we get to keep her. She will join the herd and live her entire life just as her mother did. She will grow up alongside her sister, Anna, and her auntie, Amelia. I hope she will be fierce and brave like her mom, a great leader and an independent thinker. I will tell her everyday how beautiful she is and sometimes I may tell her the story of her first day in the world. About how her mother protected her from the birds and how I gently pet her head and gave her milk when she couldn’t figure out how to drink from Antonia’s udder.

Her name is Alma.

^{Knackered from her huge first day of life}

Frog and toad rescue location by the freezer

On the morning of this toad spotting, I had been in a vile mood. The cows had been kicking and stress was high during milking. Artemis had stepped on my arm while I was holding the claw underneath her udder. Sweet Artemis who -before this incident- I thought could do no wrong. I used to think her wide-eyed stare was brimming with innocence. I cannot quite bring myself to think she is filled with malice and hatred, but the wide eyes no longer bring forth the complete trust I had in her.

Alara was a nightmare, as she often is. Her teats are situated at an awful angle so that the suction cups can’t quite grab on without sucking in air as well. The squawking noise that comes from Alara’s section of the milking parlor every morning had set my teeth on edge that morning.

Arlene stands calmly with a frog at her hooves

Even through all this, I found a toad during the cleaning process. This is usually when I find toads the few times I have been graced with their presence. It thrills me to think of a little amphibian witnessing all the cows tromping through the parlor. To watch me wobble and wend my way through the morning ritual. They sit frozen behind whatever shelter they can find, only to reveal themselves to me after all the cows have left. Frogs and toads have a tendency to surprise me. I spray down the entire milking parlor every day, but it’s often when I have my back turned that they finally emerge. I spin slowly, aiming my nozzle at every speck of poop, washing it down the drain. Until I inevitably catch a hint of movement from an otherwise camouflaged amphibian and stop spraying for fear of washing this little creature down the drain as well.

We stare at each other. The only thing to do when the size difference is so vast between two beings alone in a pit. After a few seconds of mutual wide-eyedness, I rinse my hands and pick up the small being. I was once told that earth worms, frogs, and toads can absorb germs and diseases from human hands, so I make sure I am wearing clean, chemical-free gloves each time I pick one up. I am not sure if this is true, but there is no harm in assuming it is and exercising caution. The small, bumpy back flinches under my touch as I clumsily plop both hands over the animal, willing it to understand that I am a friend and not a predator. I hold tightly and do an awkward jog up the metal stairs toward the grass beside the freezer area. It is the closest area where I think the toad may be safe from the cats and the hooves and the tractor wheels. The toads inevitably bounce away as I reflect on my morning. Perhaps things aren’t so bad if I can touch a toad this morning. I remind myself that not everyone gets to touch a toad, and not everyone gets to talk to cows. The sweet smell found at the back of a baby cow’s head, right where their ears meet their skull, is enough to make me realize that vileness is not only unnecessary, but unacceptable. True joy- not just fleeting happiness gleaned from a warm ray of sun on your cheek or a bluebird sighting- lurks around every corner on the farm. I silently thank the toad for reminding me to bask in it.

The smell of Aditi’s head is unmatched in sweetness

I now live in constant fear that a cow will kick me in the head, and my family will have to put “head kicked in by cow” in my obituary.

Sure, there are lots of other ways medieval peasants died but kicked in the head is such a classic. Such a shame. A death that claims strong, healthy, young people in their prime.

And if a cow were to kick me in the head, I think that cow would be Alara.

Alara eating her grain

Alara is a middle-aged cow. Her udder is enormous and her teats stick in weird directions. She stamps her feet in the milking parlor and has never really settled into herd life like a normal cow. She lollygags on the way out to the pasture and doesn’t seem to be afraid of much. For being a prey animal, she acts the most predatory of any of the cows I know.

Alara getting her hooves trimmed with a little bit of bedhead

Alara (pronounced- Uh-Lare-uh) has a big white blaze on her forehead. She is funny and weird and despite my fear of imminent death at her hooves, I love her very much. What makes Alara unique is her loping slowness and seeming unbothered nature paired with her penchant for mischief and her playful outbursts.

I once brought a bale of hay out to the cows in mid-winter. They were sent to the fields for a few hours every day that week because the sun was out and the grass had been stockpiled for just such a fortuitous February day. As I rolled into the field on the tractor, the herd lifted their heads in unison at the noise and then returned to grazing happily.

Alara, however, started slowly toward the tractor, picking up speed as I started to lower the bale. Hay bales are usually covered by some sort of twine or netting to hold the top layer in place. So, once I lowered it, I had to get off the tractor to cut the netting loose. Before I could dismount, Alara started a headbutting war with the hay bale. Unwinnable- of course. The hay bale never stood a chance.

I started whooping and hollering, brandishing my hat in Alara’s direction. But she paid me no mind. She continued leaping around chaotically, challenging this newcomer to a duel.

You may think I succeeded in running her off, since I eventually did spread the bale out. But I have no such powers of persuasion over Alara. The headbutting war only ended because she eventually tired of this apathetic opponent and wandered off to see what else may strike her fancy among the grass.

Alara is beautiful and interesting. She produces the most milk of any cow in the herd. So despite my intermittent fears of accidental murder, Alara will probably stay with us her whole life. She makes darling little babies who follow in her mischievous hoofprints, and she keeps my life interesting. If I ever go silent, ceasing to write, please know that Alara has smooshed me in between a fence and her body or else, I had my “head kicked in by cow.”

Alara eating a little dirt on her way to the pasture

When these signs appear, the whole farm seems to hold its breath. My breath catches in anticipation, excited by the idea of growing grass and rhythmic battering on tin roofs. The cows because this means their faces will get wet, perhaps they will be wet all night. The cows hate when their faces get wet.

When the rain comes, you shelter anywhere you can.

The farm owner- Portia- told me this one day during a particularly bad storm. I was standing with Andre in the break room- a new hire who was just learning how to milk the cows. He hadn’t been there but a week and was shadowing me for the day. Portia considered us sheltering under the eaves of the small room and sighed.

“Would you two please go get the cows. This is just a little too much rain for them. Plus they hate getting their faces wet.”

Andre and I hopped in the golf cart and raced up the road, accepting wet underwear as an inevitability.

“Drop me off here,” I shouted to him as I stepped off the cart. “You go on up and get the cows and I’ll set up this road crossing so they can just run across.”

Andre drove away, and I started setting up wires to create a lane for the cows to cross the road. I stood there for a minute, and then the underside of my socks started to get wet. I was wearing waterproof boots, so this was especially off putting. One minute turned to two and I started to realize that something had gone wrong; maybe Andre had gotten stuck or a cow was loose. I took off running toward the field.

When I arrived, I saw Andre through the sheets of water shaking his hat, smacking rumps, visibly screaming although his voice was lost to me through the storm. The cows weren’t budging. Actually, that’s not quite right. They were moving, but in the opposite direction, away from Andre.

Every time he tried to get them to move toward the gate, they turned their heads, unsure if this unintelligible man or the rain was more of a threat.

I started walking towards the field entrance and hollered with all my might, “COME ON GIRLS! LETS GO TO THE BARN!” This is their phrase, the one I say every morning to them when we’re going in from the field. It works the same as a dog owner asking, “do you want to go on a walk?”

The cows lifted their heads at the sound of a familiar voice and took off at a respectable clip toward me. They dropped their heads and plowed through the water as if they were battering rams at the enemy’s gate. As they got closer, I started to trot away having to speed up to match their pace.

Once we were all safely across the road, I started winding up the wires. Andre came up beside me catching his breath. “How did you do that?” he asked, hands on knees.

“I guess they just know my voice,” I tried, consolingly. “Plus, you’re kind of a stranger to them. I’m sure they’d listen to you if they knew you better.”

Now I don’t know if this is true, but I do know that cows put their trust in different people for different reasons. It is easier for me to get a cow to follow me because she trusts that I won’t hurt her. She won’t always follow me, but she’ll usually come when I call because my call is most often followed by fresh grass or dry barns during a storm. Cows are herd animals in so much as they follow each other. But if you gain the trust of the herd, or even one lead cow, you can get the herd to come to your call.

Many of my friends think I know a lot about cows because of my profession. But I don’t. I simply know more about a group of 29 cows than anyone else in the world. I would be another herd’s Andre, unable to move them in a storm regardless of technique. There is something special about getting to know a herd and being known by them in return.

Closing their eyes to pretend it’s not happening

Today that thing was the loss of our lead cow. She didn’t die or anything as dramatic as that; she simply joined a different group of cows that stays in one field far from the barn. A lead cow is the cow that knows the routine, takes charge, and- as suggested by the name- leads the line when the herd goes out to graze. After milking this cow is crucial, because everyone else tends to either get distracted or get nervous. Any change to a cow is nerve-wracking, even if that change has happened at the same time every day for the entirety of her life. Moving from one place to another is a chance for a predator to emerge. Plus, the youngest cows don’t know me that well. I could be leading them into a murder den full of wolves and yellow raincoats. They hate yellow raincoats.

The lead cow who joined the dry cow group is named Antonia. She is one of the oldest cows, so she has a lot of experience with moving field to field. She knows I would never take her to a yellow raincoat field and trusts that the grass out in the pasture is better than the grass on the side of the lane getting there.

A fully functioning cow line led by Antonia

Without Antonia to lead, a less capable cow like Crimson or Candy tries to take charge because, suddenly, they’re the oldest one left standing. If you grew up with siblings, you know the feeling. When all parents, grandparents, and extemporaneous adults leave the room, the eldest child is in charge, even if that child is ten years old. That’s Crimson. She bullies her way to the front of the line and promptly gets distracted by the first grass she sees. Crimson refuses to let other cows pass as she inspects the grass with her mouth, but she also moves at a snail’s pace, sniffing and biting each tasty morsel she notices. So, the line creeps along until I come to slap a rump or two and unblock the clog.

My friend, Crimson

Today was a day of meandering. There’s very little I can do about the power vacuum created by Antonia’s loss. I can look to the future and hope Daisy’s reappearance in the herd after she calves in two weeks will lead to some positive changes. But until that point, I have to wait for Crimson to saunter up the lane at her own pace or else hope a young cow accidentally steps in front of her and the urge to bully overcomes the desire to snack.

The mayhem instigator

Today that dishonor falls on Daisy. This is a cow who is well known around the farm because of her distinct spots and cock-eyed tail. If there were a princess of the creamery, Daisy would bear the title. So, the fact that she has been placed with the peasants of the herd is a disgrace to her. Every time I go to open a new section of field, she trots over to me, boring into my head with her earnest eyes seeming to state, “This surely must be some sort of clerical error.” Like many prisoners, she is adamant that she does not belong there. She’s done nothing wrong.

Daisy’s look of betrayal as I leave her in the field.

Regardless, I tell her every morning that her place is now among the youngest, the most indecent cows. The ones who run everywhere because they’re sure speed is more important than safety. The ones who spook at a hose on the ground while Daisy knows that the hose is harmless and easy to step over. She follows me as I put up and take down fences, sure that at any moment I will change my mind. I’ll put her on a halter and walk her down to her rightful group. Does she know that no one is even bringing her any grain up here? If I knew that, I surely wouldn’t continue to subject her to this kind of torture.

Claiborne is also a milk cow, albeit a newer one. She has only had one baby, so she still has heifer tendencies. She is with the teenage group as well, but she is happy with her fate. Unlike Daisy, she is the lowest in the pecking order in the milking herd. She has no standing and is constantly headbutted to within an inch of her life. She is terrified of Alara and is last everywhere. Unless she accidentally ends up in the front of the line, in which case she is running for her life from Antonia. If Antonia catches her, she will be getting pushed into an electric fence.

Claiborne, therefore, is happy to be with the heifers. She is top dog out here and gets praised for being a good cow while the heifers are scolded for their misbehavior. She gets the best grass first because she knows what it means when a farmer shows up in the side by side. It is not a social visit as the teenagers seem to assume. They’re sure to learn after another year or two. It often takes a cow watching another cow for her to understand that something is safe, good for her, and encouraged.

Imagine being a first grader surrounded by other first graders. A natural leader will arise from the group of children, but as soon as an adult arrives, the adult is obviously in charge. When the heifers meet Antonia, Damascus, Gemini, and Alara, they will understand that Claiborne is small potatoes. But for now, she is taking them for all they’re worth and parading around as the second grader of the group. Claiborne never tells me she is unhappy in action or glance. In fact, she dried herself off months ago, tired of being pushed around only to have someone touch her belly at 6 A.M. every morning. Claiborne hangs out with the heifers in a way that Daisy will never. Daisy knows she is too good for the likes of Adeline, Daphne, and Dallas. The nerve of those cows to eat the same grass as her is honestly beyond her comprehension. I project many of my own ideas about humanity and social interaction on the cows as I work with them, but the look in Daisy’s eyes every morning informs me that what I write above is true. She is ready to be a milk cow again, no matter the cost.

A classic Daisy side-eye.

I work on a small dairy farm in the North Carolina piedmont. We take care of between twenty-five and thirty cows at a time, creating artesian cheese with their milk. I started working on this farm out of necessity in 2021. I was trying to follow my grandmother’s idea of a career and started a master’s degree in library science. Librarians are respectable pillars of the community, or so I heard from anyone with whom I shared my course of study. When I entered library school, I was coming off an AmeriCorps year in Montana. My spirit was rejuvenated by the mountains and the garden work with which I had been tasked, but my bank account was nearing zero. I had been applying to entry-level librarian positions for months in preparation for my move to Chapel Hill, but no one wanted an almost librarian loser when they could choose from the sundry library masters who exist on demand in the research triangle area of North Carolina. I was no one, and on top of that, I had spent my early twenties exploring the west and job-hopping. So, I was unreliable and inexperienced.

As I strolled the lanes of the Carrboro Farmer’s market one day, slowly sinking into despair that I would run out of money before finding even the basest library position, I stopped in front of an unlikely duo selling cheese and yogurt. Triggering some hidden part of my psyche, still a mystery to this day, I struck up a conversation with the older woman in torn jean shorts and the young, beautiful enigma who would fit in easily on a New York City sidewalk. These women were Portia and Aracely. I finished the conversation casually asking Aracely if they were hiring. She directed me to Portia who gave me her email, making vaguely positive indications that they may soon be hiring, and I walked away with a container of the creamiest yogurt I have ever tasted.

And so began the saga of becoming a professional disappointment to my grandmother. She was no longer alive by the time I started as a cheesemaker, but if she had been, I’m sure she would have been equally as charmed as my parents and friends. After all, I was working a fun job where I sometimes got free cheese to support my journey into the professional world of library sciences. Into a real career with security and a salary. I had no idea how deeply I would fall in love with the cows altering the course of my life forever. I don’t truly think my grandmother would’ve been disappointed in me, merely surprised. In her lifetime when she was so limited in what she could do, farming may have felt like a punishment. But I know if she had seen my eyes light up if she had been able to ask me about my day on the farm, she would’ve found joy in my fulfillment. What she wanted more than anything was for us to grow up kind, even if that meant we became farmers.

The farm at sunrise

When I began working on the farm, Portia started me with the calves. If you have never worked with a calf before, know that being around them is like crack. Crack light, maybe; I don’t want to oversell their appeal as someone who has never actually tried crack. But Portia knew that there is something magic about ushering tiny lives into the world and smelling the top of a baby cow’s head their first day on Earth. She knew I would be hooked if I had any sense of wonder. I have since graduated to smelling the tops of all the cows’ heads, and whether they are one day or ten years old, they all smell like home.

Astrid on her first day

I have so many aspirations. In fact, I have a list of dream jobs that I keep updated in case my current job doesn’t work out. But the thought of ever leaving my cows without being able to tell them where I am going feels untenable; it feels heartbreaking. This space is a way for me to record each cow’s life as it happens, making sure small things don’t fall through the cracks of my memory as they are liable to do. These cows share so much light with the world and I think every one should have a chance to see that. So this introduction was about me, but every entry after this will be about the animals who make my life feel full and who make the world better by existing.

Cece and Me