What's in a (cow's) name?

It’s funny how memories are jogged. Sometimes all it takes is certain smell, photograph or conversation for some past part of your life to bubble back up to the surface.

This was the case last week when I caught part of a conversation at the other end of the newsroom, when a colleague simply stated that “Lynnette” isn’t a name you’d typically give your dog or cat, or any pet for that matter.

Without hesitation I blurted out: “My uncle once named one of his dairy cows Lynnette.” And I added how strangely humiliating it had been to have a bovine named after me.

All week I’ve been thinking about the many generations of dairy cows my dad tended through the decades, and how he had names for all 40-plus milk cows. Tried as I might, I couldn’t remember all of those endearing names, but a few still came to mind. Petunia was one of those recurring names; we must have had a half-dozen Petunias through the years, always a mostly white Holstein. Rosie, Bessie, Lily and Gertie also were popular monikers.

Each cow had its own stanchion during milking time and knew where they were supposed to go. As I think about it now, I find it remarkable how each of them found their exact spot. I don’t know if it was rote learning, instinct or my father’s guidance that led them to their correct stalls.

Of course there were cantankerous cows. Angel, one of my brother Rodney’s 4-H livestock entries, refused to obediently take her place, and would lead us on a chase every morning and night. When we asked Dad why he just didn’t sell devilish Angel, he said the cow was one of his best milk producers. So we kept wrangling Angel into her spot.

I also remember an ornery heifer we named Houdini because she was capable of escaping from any fence or confinement. Houdini was sent to market before reaching adulthood, and not a tear was shed.

My 4-H calves all had flower names — Rosebud, Buttercup, Bluebell and Sweet Pea. Unlike the 4-Hers who have to part with their market steers at sale time, our calves and heifers simply became part of the herd. Sweet Pea died prematurely, though, and that was sad, but kids raised on a farm learn early on about the hard reality of life and death.

The local veterinarian made many late-night stops at our farm through the years. Sometimes a cow could be saved, sometimes not.

My older brother Arlen and I helped Dad deliver a breech calf one night. The three of us pulled and massaged with all of our might to bring that baby bovine into the world.

Even though it’s been decades now since our old barn pulsed with the rhythm of those twice-a-day milkings, the memories are still so vivid. The feel of a newborn calf’s mouth as you taught him to drink from a bucket by letting him suck your hand as you plunged it into the warm milk; the pungent smell of silage; the well-worn wooden steps to the hay loft. Some of the cows’ names may escape me now, but the memories of the daily family camaraderie — and hard work — it took to milk those cows morning and night seems to never fade.

News Editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or lhintze@dailyinterlake.com.