We had just come from a demonstration of livestock and horses and agruculture in general. I'm not much for that sort of thing, so, being the rational and tolerant man I am, I had a conniption when K said she'd love to live on a farm.
"WHATTHEHELLAREYOUTALKINGABOUT
WHYDIDIMARRYADAIRYFARMER
WERENEVERGONNALIVEINACITY
ANDILLDIEINTHEWILDRENESSWITHNOTHINGBUTSTRAWTOMOURNME!"
I had to let it all out in one breath, you see, to avoid smelling the cow pies. K pointed out that if we lived on a farm we'd be used to the smell. I said this was a smell that I never wanted to get used to.
As I write this, I'm reminded of a long-ago childhood memory, when my mom and I went to New Brunswick, Canada, shortly before my parents' divorce. At one point, we stayed in a rented room on a dairy farm for a night. One of the hands gave us a tour of the farm itself, pointing out the milking machines and the like. Cows were hooked up to them and everything.
As he was saying something like, "And that's where the cows feed," the bovine directly in front of us--while still hooked up to the milking machine--relieved itself, rather loudly. My mom laughed hysterically and said, "And that's cow shit!"
Her seven year old son, meanwhile, was trying desperately not to throw up, pacing out of the barn as quickly as he could.
I haven't thought about that in years. But it might explain why I refused to drink milk all the way into college.
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