Lest any of you think I sit here all day in my thong, tweezing out the stray hairs they missed on my last Brazilian, here’s a sample of our morning routine. After a cup or two of coffee, we head out to the garden to scythe down a couple of bushels of grass. The morning dew makes the grass easier to cut with the scythe, and we learned from bitter experience, the longer you wait to get out, the more numerous the biting flies you’ll have to deal with.

36" Austrian scythe

36" Austrian scythe

Then I rake the stuff up to cart over to the dairy, where my wife is busy brushing the feces and sleep dirt off the cow.

The business end, before washing.

The business end, before washing.

At some point last night, Bailey (the cow) decided to sleep in a pile of her own shit. In this way, she’s no different from the people who formulate our foreign policy.

This is a pretty extreme case, so I have to assist with the aid of the mighty scrubber.

I'm really a squeamish person. I don't know how this happened.

I'm really a squeamish person. I don't know how this happened.

Now every trace of fecal material is removed from Bailey’s haunches, vulva, bag, and tits.

A mild solution of surgical scrub and Dr.Bronner's. Dilute Dilute!

A mild solution of surgical scrub and Dr.Bronner's. Dilute Dilute!

You may have noticed that Bailey is strapped into position with some of our old bondage weapons and a section of webbing normally used to restrain loads on trucks. This is because Bailey is both wicked smart for a cow, and batshit crazy. Any unsecured appendage will wind up flailing wildly as the milking commences. I have been told this is not unusual when you first start milking a cow, but only the dedicated, evil ones will persist in this behavior until you weary of them and sell them to Wendy’s.

When I threaten Bailey with this option, she lifts her tail and unleashes a liquid torrent of green shit. This is cowspeak for “go fuck yourself”.

Now we have Bailey trussed up and quietly munching her grass…

 Ahhh. Contentment....NOT!

Ahhh. Contentment....NOT!

We can begin to milk her. Bailey is a Dexter-Kerry cross, and pretty low slung, so you have to crouch to milk her. She also has very short teats, and when her bag is full, they are difficult to squeeze properly. I was discussing this with a young Mennonite woman at the farmer’s market, when she blurted out “How do you even get to the tits?”. It’s pathetic, I know, but this conversation rates among the top ten erotic moments of my life.

Milking.

Milking.

We milk into quart jars because Bailey likes nothing better than jabbing her shit-encrusted foot into a bucket of her own warm milk. It gives meaning to her otherwise staid life. After letting one stream on the ground to remove the bacteria-rich milk that’s lain overnight in the tit, I proceed to milk three tits, and leave the fourth for the calf, who, by this time, is trying to rip through the fence to get her breakfast.

Calpurnia hungry ready eat now

Calpurnia hungry ready eat now

Calpurnia is now released into the milking area to bat cleanup.

The money shot

The money shot

While I take the milk back to strain hair, dirt, etc. out of the milk through a cotton handkerchief.

Don't get no fresher

Don't get no fresher

And now I’m free to do a little tweezing.

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