Taos Cows

cows just down the road in Taos

Who the hell are you, they wondered

Sometimes a cow is just a cow, unless it’s a heifer or a freemartin or a cattlebeast. For that matter, these might be steers. (Those are all legitimate terms, by the way.) I usually don’t pay that much attention unless we’re talking about bulls or have to steal some milk. In that case, you’d better get it straight. The only certain thing is that most of these will end up on a bun, which makes me sad and hungry.

For someone who doesn’t know much about them, I have a special relationship with cows. Er, cattle. Everywhere I’ve ever lived, if there are bovines on the other side of a fence, I’ll go up to them and try to communicate in cow-speak! (The beasts above were very paranoid, however.) Once when I was just a lad, my great-uncle Herbert in New Hampshire showed me how to milk one. I’ll never forget the sound of the stream of milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket or how it steamed in the cold air in the barn. Later he sat me up on top of one (below). That’s him with Mrs. Ellsworth, his “housekeeper.” They were something of a scandal, but that’s the way it was with him. Quite the man, my granny’s older brother.

boy on a cow

I was surprised how warm the cow’s back was

When we first moved to New Mexico, we lived in the tiny mountain village of San Cristobal. (The rest of America has absolutely no idea what that’s like, but check out Buffalo Lights for enlightenment.) Everything is different here, even the ungulates. I’d always see these awful-looking cattle in a wretched field and finally asked our landlady about them. Here’s a third-person narrative I wrote at the time:

“Those are THE cows,” his landlady explained.

He’d wondered about them, the small herd of a dozen or so rough-edged beasts he saw nearly every day. They were not quite like any others he’d ever seen, with their thick, curly, dust-colored hair, “nappy” as she described them, and their nasty-looking horns. They usually hung out just behind the rusty wire fence on the south side of the dirt road leading up the valley. Every evening a woman came down the hill with a bale of hay in a wheelbarrow and heaved their dinner into the near end of the narrow little pasture. The ground here was bare except for cowflops and a few rusty pieces of machinery—an old truck axle, a wheel or two, and three-fourths of a dead tractor. But the cows didn’t seem to mind.

“They’re descendents of the original herd brought over by the first Spanish settlers,” she continued. “An old breed they’ve kept going all this time.” Well, no wonder! That accounted for the scruffy, wild, yet tired look these bovines had. THE cows, indeed.

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John Hamilton Farr lives in Taos, New Mexico, U.S.A. with his classical pianist wife. “Possibly the only place I can get away with this,” he says. As New York Times best-selling author James C. Moore (Bush’s Brain) put it in a review of John’s first book, Buffalo Lights is the work of a man attuned to the world who sees it differently than you and I and writes about it with a language and a vision of life that is impossible to ignore.” John is the author of BUFFALO LIGHTS, TAOS SOUL, ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE, and THE HELEN CHRONICLES. He has been publishing online since 1996 (Zoo Zone, Farr Site, MacFaust, GRACK!, FarrFeed) and blogs regularly here at JHFARR.COM. See also → John’s Twitter profile, Amazon Author Page, video channel at YouTube, and website photos at SmugMug. To email John, please see CONTACT INFO on About page.  

  • Bob April 8, 2014, 12:58 PM

    When I first began to read this post, Buffalo Lights came to mind. That and Taos Soul have permanent places on my bookshelves. Not in the sense that I never take them down permanent, mind you, but more like permanent as opposed to Fifty Ways To Light A Fire permanent…just in case it matters.
    Like you, cattle have always been a part of me in some way or another. I don’t know if it truly began with those long walks with my mother through the tall rye grass and white-faced Herefords, or if it was when my dive through the rails of a pipe fence came just a second before that Brahma bull tossed me over the top. Like Donny Gay used to say, “Only he and the woman who does his laundry knows how close that bull came.”
    These days I just know those critters are near by every time the wind blows down the South Platte River valley. I can only eat steak when the wind blows north.

    • JHF April 8, 2014, 9:02 PM

      Feedlots, yow!

      Love the Donny Gay quotation.

      At some point I’ll put out a print version of Taos Soul. Right now I’m trying to get some other things off the ground.

  • christian ienni April 8, 2014, 2:07 PM

    “The only certain thing is that most of these will end up on a bun, which makes me sad and hungry.”
    You sum up the contradictory duality of existence eloquently!
    “Awwww…”, but simultaneously “Mmmmm…”

  • Frank Powell April 8, 2014, 3:30 PM

    History on the Hoof, just walking about there.

  • Leanne Retana April 9, 2014, 5:22 PM

    Years ago I visited the Lama Foundation in San Cristobal. Beautiful place.

{ 5 comments… add one }

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