For the Love of Cows

NIN ANDREWS

My mother loved cows. In my earliest memories, she is walking the green fields of our dairy farm, a silver bucket in one hand, a stream of heifers trotting behind her.  She always said the love of a cow is something that passes from one generation to the next. It’s like a gene. And she hoped she’d passed it on to me. 

The year I turned eight, she gave me a calf for my birthday. A pure white Ayreshire. I’d never seen an Ayreshire that was all white before that day. Usually they have brown or reddish spots. I was thrilled. I thought my calf looked like a ghost or a spirit cow. Wobbly-kneed and hungry, she sucked my fingers and pant legs and followed me around the barnyard. I remember feeding her from a milk bucket for the first time and thinking, This is the best birthday ever. 

After all, the sun was shining. It was Saturday. I didn’t have to go anywhere, and I had a white calf. And I was a new number. Eight. Like the sign for infinity. Eight years old. What more could I ask for? 

What will you name her, Nathalie? Mom asked that night when we were eating cake and ice cream. The farmhand had suggested “Casper.” My dad said “Spirit” or “Saint.” But on a whim, I answered, Her name is Nathalie. 

Yep. Nathalie. I would name my first cow after myself. 

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