While we were watching the thunderheads roll in a few nights ago, preparing to eat outside on our porch with a new friend, we realized that it always rains when people come to dinner. At least it has always rained this particular summer when we have people over for dinner. Or perhaps, even more suspiciously, it rains when we have people over for dinner because there is no where to eat inside our house since I sanded all the textured drywall off our kitchen walls. I thought about leaving the texture on our walls as we remodeled our kitchen — a shrine to the apartment my father, brother and I lived in for a few years during the 90’s after my parent’s divorce. But I decided that I did not want the memory of divorce looking at me every morning while I chopped up almonds to put in my sheep yogurt. The remainder of our house is covered in fine, white dust. Our boots, our books on raising cows, our spoons, the long and thick leaves of our aloe vera plant— all covered in a fine white powder as if the walls sneezed and didn’t bother to clean up after themselves. They must have been very sick. A nasty cold.

Our new cow is here - Rose finally has a companion after losing her calf, Ruth. Rose was alone for 6 weeks after Ruth died, mooing at us incessantly because she was lonely. She wasn’t hungry or even too bothered by all the summer flies — she just wanted companionship. Heathar and I were anxious to JUST GET AN ANIMAL IN WITH HER so she would stop mooing at us, but we knew it had to be the right kind of animal. We debated for months as to what kind of animal we should get to be a companion to Rose. How about a goat? (Too destructive) What about a miniature cow? (Too bougie and expensive — MY GOD do you know how much a miniature cow costs?!)

Thank you for all of your sweet notes in acknowledging the passing of our calf, Ruth. Your support and empathy has been deeply felt by our farm. Many of you have been asking how Rose is doing since losing her calf. If I can speak on behalf of Rose (which I am not sure that I can), I will say that she is doing better than we expected. I am not sure what we expected Cow Grief to look like but perhaps something like dragging her hooves through the dirt with a sad look in her eyes. But, we have not seen that from Rose. Her milk production continues to flow, her appetite does not waver and she still licks us when we walk into the barn.

It seems wrong to be sad in May — it feels sacrilegious to bring my sadness out into this much sunshine — like I want to protect the sun from my tears so it doesn’t get the wrong idea. It’s okay, please keep shining. Don’t mind me over here — continue on into summer. I promise I will get on board with the seasons soon. Yesterday, the first flowers on our yellow rose bush bloomed and our Iris’ blossomed their purple heads. Yesterday, amidst all of the life on our farm, our beloved 4-month-old calf died.

Everyone told us that a dairy cow was a commitment. They shook their finger at me and said, “Jen, no one wants to milk a dairy cow twice a day. It ties you to your farm. It tethers you. Suffocates you. Strangles you. Don’t get a dairy cow.” ALL THOSE PEOPLE were wrong. A dairy cow is not only a commitment — she is a devotion, a daily sacrifice and a religious allegiance to the Great Bovine Gods. You cannot stray from your allegiance even for one moment, lest the cow’s udders burst from the gallons of milk inside that you failed to release for her.

The other morning I left the gate open to gather water for Rose (our 3-year-old Jersey cow) from our working spigot (as I do every morning) but on this morning, Ruth (our 3-week-old calf) got curious and followed me out of the gate. If the cows get out of the barnyard, their gate opens up onto another pasture on our property. But after that, the pasture becomes our driveway, then the road and then our neighbor’s yard. Once Ruth was out of the gate, she quickly bucked and kicked her way to the road and Rose began to trail behind her.