Short story.
(Disclaimer: there may be other good milk cow breeds out there. But a Jersey is what I got first and she stole my heart.)
An old timer who lives close by used to be the only other crazy milk cow owner for miles around.
Sporadically, I would swing by his shop for fresh cream with which to make butter.
He’s a butcher by trade. He would open his meat cooler, bring a full five gallon of cream out. From his butchering table he’d grab his long knife sharpening tool, wipe the blood and gore off with a paper towel. Use it to stir the cream thoroughly. Run his finger around the inside of the five gallon pail, lick his finger off, and pronounce it good. “Mmmmm, I love that on my cornflakes in the morning.”
No longer does he milk, as he did for 60 years. He quit because of back problems.
Where’s a girl to get cream? She buys herself her own cow.
So I take him a pint of cream. He says, “You have a milk cow?”
”Yes, a Jersey.”
He says, with a far off look, “I used to have Jerseys.” We share a companionable silence… then he says, “They’re good cows.”
“I know, they are good cows.” I say. Then, hastily, lest I am viewed as a Jersey snob, I say: “If you get a good one.”
“They are good cows,” he repeats. “Speak English to them, and they will understand you.”