It brings to memory the antics of my sisters and I riding one of our Daddy’s prized white face Hereford Cows. We named this piece of prime beef and hamburger on hooves Bossie and made a pet of her. I can’t even remember who decided we should make this 2000 pound creature our own private carnival ride, all I can remember is riding the thing around the yard, not at a wild gallop but traveling at a slow, sedate walk, ambling along at what seemed to be top speed to a bunch of young gals. She wore a little black felt hillbilly hat and sported a halter. I guess we all wanted to be rodeo stars in a future life or at the very least, be as daring as Annie Oakley. How brave we felt, sitting high on a cow’s back, looking down on the world from our lofty perch. I recall waiting anxiously for my turn, awash with the fidgets, and getting so frustrated when the lucky sister who happened to be atop that cow would turn and smirk at the unfortunate wanta-be-cow-riders waiting their turn. I can also remember Mom having to step in and force the change of rider at a specified time because we were unwilling to relinquish possession.
The cowboys on television make riding a cow seem a difficult and fool-hardy piece of idiocy. The trick is to find a cow that actually likes to be ridden and is tame enough as to encourage this trait. Bossie was that and more. I am also of the opinion that her lack of that pesky testosterone that Bulls (which are boy cows, for those uneducated people) have in abundance had some bearing on her gentleness. For a bunch of girls who had little in the way of summertime entertainment, Bossie was definitely a big hit.
Actually riding a cow was simple. To get on that cow was a more difficult maneuver. Especially for a short woman who was an equally short child. My older sister was long -legged and could easily vault onto her back from the ground. She was lucky. But the short become very resourceful in their hour of need. Either a step up from a littler sister’s back who is down on all fours beside said cow or ever a bucket placed near her hooves became a handy stool to use. Once atop the cow, getting her to move was tougher. She had a tendency to just stand there chewing her cud while you kicked and yelled and pleaded for her to move forward. Once in a while, she would swish her tail to shoo a fly. And maybe even turn her head to take a peek at whoever on her back, all the while chewing and blinking at you. Forward motion of both the cow and, ergo, the cowgirl, was achieved simply by means of an ear of dried corn tied to a piece of twine and to a long stick. Bossie would follow that corn anywhere. To turn left, you moved the corn to the left. Right, same thing, opposite direction. Simple. The cow followed the ear of corn. The problems started when you were holding the corn before you were ready to get going. She went whether you were ready or not. It became necessary to ensure her immobility, and that was to make sure someone else had the corn on the stick while you got on and got settled. And equally important was to make sure she could not see the corn, or she would move before your were ready to go after that food. To stop the ride was equally frustrating, both to the rider and to the cow. Either by means of handing the stick to someone on the ground or throwing it as far away as possible was one means. As long as she didn’t see where it went. The most expeditious means was to simply jump off her back while still in motion and hope for a soft landing.
Of course, our cow riding days were not without risks and numerous mishaps. Getting a small bare foot stepped on by a cow hoof is not a pleasant thing. The steering mechanism also left room for improvement. Bossie had a bad habit for side-swiping barbwire fences. Whether from our terrible steering or from sheer perversity I don’t know. But either way, little bare legs and barb wire fences were not a pretty combination. Equally dangerous were the before mentioned dismounts. Rodeo daredevils had nothing on us when it came to abandoning ship and disastrous landings. We sported many scraped knees and arms and bruises, all badges of honor in our eyes. A few of still have the scars to prove it.
She had twin calves once and one got stuck in the mud at the cow pond. When it died, Bossie’s milk dried up and we raised the other calf on a bottle. When the calf got older, Daddy took it to the slaughter house and had it turned into steak, hamburger and roasts. I can clearly remember sitting at the dinner table where Mom had served some of that beef and refusing to eat any of it. None of us would eat it. We all five sat there with tears running down our faces and watching Daddy as he ate our pet. It would have been like eating our pet dog, sacrilege. He had to give all that meat away to appease us. I can remember when Daddy sold her at the sale barn. We were broken hearted.
All in all, I think all kids should have a pet cow. Preferably one that is amicable enough to allow ambling strolls atop her back. We had dogs, cats, goats and pigs. We have even had opossums and skunks as pets. But, for me, Bossie is the best pet we ever had. Maybe because she was unique, because in all honesty, not many have bovines for pets.
3 comments:
OH the memories of childhood. I've got a framed picture of us and Bossy up on the boodcase. And she is wearing her hat.
I know you had fun when you were but a Tot.
I know you had fun when you were but a Tot.
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