Now I’m getting into unfamiliar territory as I’ve never milked a cow in my life and on the eighth day we have 8 maids doing it.
To be honest, although I’ve been called a right cow at times, I would never like to be one.
The thought of having cold metal things clamped on my boobs fills me with dread, so from a cow’s point of view, it must have been far nicer, and gentler, having a maid sit on her little stool with her head against your flank, milking you by hand.
My aunt had a cow, so as well as having fresh milk, she made her own butter. As a child, I spent time up on their farm, but don’t remember the cow, only collecting eggs and the first one I washed broke in my hand. I was probably a little heavy-handed but I know I was devastated and thought I’d be in trouble.
Maggie’s first encounter with a cow was amusing. She came face to face with it round a corner as it was having a munch on the grass. She was fine until it said Moo and then she leapt into Hubby’s arms!
Then of course we had the saga of the lost ‘cow’ (aka bull) up at the plantation where we used to walk Maggie. You can read about that here