Morning Milking

Morning Milking

6:00 am

Every morning, seven days a week

I drag myself out of bed and entreat the buzzing alarm

For mercy’s sake, shut up!

I bumble about the kitchen, blind as a bat

Groping around in the dark to gather supplies for milking

Shiny steel pail, teat dip, bag balm

The familiar sting of Clorox in my nostrils

Carrying the milk pail, I stumble through the screen door to the back porch

The crisp morning air tastes of spearmint chewing gum in my lungs

The dark, satin veil of dusk envelops me

As I shift aside the lid that covers the large black bucket of soaking barley

Then plunge my hand into the sodden mass

Resurfacing with a mound of grain cradled in my palm

The cloudy water streaks out of my handful as I squeeze it

Once the drips stop, I plop the grain into a small white bucket

Thwack, thwack, thud as each handful hits the bottom

I lift my soybean meal-coated hand out of the grain

The wet flecks cling to my itching skin

I carry the milking pail and the small white grain bucket to the milking stanchion,

Nestled in its corner of the wood shed

Eleven goat-like phantoms watch me from their side of the high-tensile fence

Quietly

Patiently

Waiting

They know my routine

Enter Bea

Bug-eyed Bea

Bea-short-for-Beatrice Bea

Bearded-but-not-a-boy Bea

Alpine-cross-Toggenburg-breed Bea

A goat with an attitude overload

Bea crosses the fence and ambles to the tired, battered milking stand

I strap the headlock together while she gobbles her grain

Juice rushes down her beard when she resurfaces from the bucket

Snarfing as if her breakfast is a tasty treat, not the mundane soaked BOSS, barley, and SOM

Barley heads sail off her beard like confetti when she jerks her head back to glare at me

I seat myself on the cracked gray bucket,

Placing the pail under Bea’s fore udder,

Rearranging her reluctant legs to my preferred position

I discard the first three squirts from each teat, then they zing into the pail

Left, right, left, right, left, right

My hands keep a steady rhythm until she is dry

I swab Bag Balm on her teats then dip them in Clorox water

I unstrap the headlock and lead her back across the fence

Caffe comes next

Moon-spotted, leggy, delicate

She holds her imperious Roman nose high, alert

Her sleek hair shines like glossy black spider eyes

The angularity of her stature softens as she glides to the milking stanchion,

Waits apprehensively for me to ready the grain,

Then begins to eat in a daintier manner than her counterpart

The tedium of

One

Bite

At

A

Time

Will this goat ever finish her food?

I can’t decide which I prefer:

The messy, sloppy glutton or the nibbling prima donna?

The milk plumes in the bucket as I milk Caffe

The foam rising higher with every squirt

She lifts her head from her breakfast

Her long, lop ears flap like opening parachutes when she turns to look at me

Quirky, horizontal, amber eyes

I love those eyes

I am finished milking

Caffe leaps off the stand and trots back to the fence

I lead her across and trill a “Good morning!” to my hodgepodge crew

Of black, white, red, and brown goats,

Their bristled hair from the morning chill temporarily transforms them into puffballs

I gather my buckets and supplies

Going back to the house, the pigs scream as if they are being crucified

The reality is that they want food

Morning milking has concluded

The milk strains into the half-gallon jar and I place it in the freezer

I wash the pail and it waits patiently for the evening,

For its next use