I had been watching the dairy today out my west windows, seeing the pens full of milk cows for the very last afternoon.  In spite of the fact that I'm sick and it's snowing, I eventually put on my boots and jacket and went up there. The snow was getting heavier and huge thick flakes began sticking to the backs of the black and white cows lined up at the feed bunk.  The cows were content, unconcerned and eating.  A fat black bird sat in the green feed in the bunk at the maternity barn pen and one curious cow stretched her neck through the fence to take a closer look, nose to the bird.

The maternity barn is full of fat pregnant cows snuggled together in deep clean straw.   They raised their heads and perked up their ears as I looked in and took some pictures.

My old friend, seven-year-old 7097 is in the fresh pen.   A few days ago when the weather was warm, I sat with her there and leaned against her while she chewed her cud and gazed into the distance. Today she was at the feed bunk, snow beginning to pack onto her black back. She was too busy eating to let me scratch under her ears and talk to her, but as I backed the jeep back down the alley, she raised her head and gazed at me until I went around the corner.  I don't suppose she'll miss me.  I'll miss her.

Katy Eyestone's 4-H heifer, 9778, was also busy eating in the high pen, but posed for one last picture and allowed me to stroke her head and say good-bye.  Her future is uncertain; she injured a foot and went off milk while she was recuperating.  If she didn't get bred, she's sure to be cut from the herd by the buyer.  At least she got to be pampered and bathed and brushed and combed and learned to lead and be in shows with people who cared about her.  And Katy will have the ribbons she won at the fair and I'll have the thank you card that Katy sent when she was a little girl.

The black and white cows contrast against the white snowy ground, the white sky and the white roof of the loafing shed where a flock of black birds sit, waiting for me to go away so they can compete with the cows for the best part of the feed piled in the bunk.  I was glad I already had a good photo of 985, the 11-year-old cow, because today she had her back turned to me, facing away from the wind and snow and would only perk up her ears when I called her but wouldn't turn around.  I never put her on the truck to go to the sale barn, and the men, in spite of the fact that I told them several months ago that she was open and low milk and they would need to load her themselves if they wanted to sell her, never did either. And the buyer, who got to pick out 6 cows he didn't want, didn't put her number on his list, so she goes with the rest of the herd tomorrow morning.  I hope staying with the herd and being well fed and left alone was reward enough for the 178,000 pounds of milk she gave.

Tomorrow morning. . . . they will start milking at 6 a.m. on schedule, and when the cows come out of the barn after milking, they will come down the alley, go up a loading chute and onto a truck instead of returning to their pens.  It will be a long, long ride to New Mexico for dairy cows who like routine and who are giving lots of milk.  They will disappear and become anonymous in a dairy that milks 5500 cows.

A woman dairy farmer that lives about 2 hours away called two days ago to say she wanted to buy the cows.  I wish she had called sooner.  She was very disappointed when I told her they were already sold.

Yesterday, when we finished up some business in the office and the men were leaving, the buyer was the last one out the door.  He stopped and said, "see you Monday."  And I said no.  I won't be there.

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