There comes a time in every cow’s life when she decides that grain really isn’t a worthwhile bribe. For Daisy, that day came in the fall of 2017.

“Come back, Daisy Cow!” I shouted from my position over the grain. I suppose the red halter open in my hands was more conspicuous than I had hoped for. “This grain is from Vale. It’s practically exotic.”

Daisy glanced at me through the shed window and evacuated with greater haste. Fortunately for my empty milk pail, my older brother intercepted the Jersey and forced her to return for another go-around.

Daisy stepped to the opening of the shed and checked my position. I smiled in hopes that she would ignore the halter. She spun away again, and I contributed to my brother’s effort to bring her back by calling out the redemptive qualities of the wet cob I offered. At long last I wrestled the halter onto her head, and she set to angrily stuffing her face while I planted my stool next to her straw-packed hind hooves and began the harvest.

Milking is not dependent upon height but on strength of heart and forearm, or so I remind myself when my family and friends lose sight of me from the clouds. It requires awareness to ward off any attempt Daisy makes to walk through the bucket or stick her hoof in it. Sometimes I can block these by my arm, but other situations require a flailing retreat and a follow-up lecture on how I would teach her a lesson if only she weren’t so conveniently fragile. In fly season, my diminutive height places me within firing range of the ever-busy tail switch, which starts to annoy me after the fiftieth face-numbing smack or so. Of all these, however, the greatest obstacle I have encountered is a cow who has made up her mind to be somewhere else.

Many battles later, winter has descended on the tail end of the year, and the clouds have spat the first snow onto the desert. I have begun singing Christmas carols as I fill my little red bucket with the daily gallon of warm white foam. With a little help from my dad, Daisy and I have learned to put up with each other’s tempers. I think she has finally realized that my persistent disruption of her happiness is far preferable to a horde of adopted calves, largely because I milk without teeth and only every afternoon instead of every two minutes. I’m sure the day is coming when she will again flee as fast as her short Jersey legs can carry her, but for now we are content. After all, what’s not to love about the peaceful sound of foam building from the spray in my bucket, juxtaposed against my snail’s-pace falsetto of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”? Especially to be cherished are the coming days when the snow will drape its arms over the three-walled shed and remind my cranky cow and me of the first humble Christmas when B.C. ended and A.D. began. What better way to celebrate God’s gift to mankind?

Happy Advent, Harney County! Stay warm.