The neighbors lost another cow. A smaller brown one, its head hangs over the side of the tarp as they haul it, dangling from the tractor, puttering down the road. At least this time they carried it proper.
The last cow they lost was at the start of the season. She was black, tall. I saw her in the afternoon when the ruckus of my dogs’ barking roused me from the trailer. She was mooing and mooing, standing at our gate. The dogs barked at her, she took no notice of them. She walked slowly up the lane, mooing. I locked the dogs up, then returned to her side. With the baby on my hip, I waved my arm, talking to her, C’mon Mama get along.
She turned around and headed back up the lane, towards the field in a distance where her herd was. She moved slow, I kept on her, the baby curious. C’mon Mama, get on.
She looked back at me every few steps, resistant to return up the lane. She ducked into the field gate before the turn. I left her there, safe enough, a good distance from the highway, and didn’t think of her again.
That evening, right before the in-laws arrived for an outdoor dinner, the neighbors came driving down the lane slowly, dragging a tarp behind their truck, a dead cow hanging behind, her entrails scraping along the dirt lane. A treat for the dogs, a greeting for the in-laws.
The next day I called in on the ole lady next door. We talked of the weather, of the garden planting, of the valley news. Her nephew lost a cow she said. I saw it, being drug along the lane, how’d she die?
Oh she’d gotten lose. Slipped out the fence, calling and looking for her calf. I guess they’d been separated during the move, her calf ending up with the second group up the mountain.
I think I saw her earlier that day, I tried walking her back, but she stopped in the field across the lane.
They knew she was missing, found her on the lane out there, and tried herding her back, but ended up chasing her to the highway. She stepped out in front of an old pickup- little 90 year old man was driving. Smashed his truck up real good. Killed the poor thing. Just out there calling for her calf. Calling and calling.
My daughter grabbed at me, wanting to nurse.
Boys still haven’t buried her, she’s sitting out in the field, out there in the sun.
My daughter was restless. I left, told her I’d call in soon.
I walked home down the lane, my daughter on my hip. Seeing that black cow, her searching and calling, determined to find her little calf. Her little calf, probably up the mountain calling and calling for milk. My daughter beat on my chest to nurse. It was lunch time.