when the milking goes bad, or, the honeymoon is over

Here's a little-known insight for those of you who have never milked a cow, but would like to try it. The milk? is not supposed to go on the ground.

You're welcome.

The thing is, Banjo is a ballerina. Didn't think a heifer could dance? Well, you've never met Banjo. This girl can spin on a dime. To contain her we built a stanchion, which is too wide and not only fails to keep her restrained but actually makes it harder to milk by putting up a block at eye level. The milking machine, which is hella heavy, seems like it should sit at her feet, but that's just begging for disaster, so instead we hang it from a strap slung over her back, where it swings with her every movement, and threatens to spill over, so we have to balance that with one hand while holding the suckers on her teats with the other four hands we've magically sprouted. All of this is much harder on us than it is on her, trust me. But occasionally she gets irritable -- specifically if her treats run out and we're still milking -- so she starts dancing forward and back, side to side, the machine swinging with her, while we desperately follow it from a crouched position from which we're delivering a signed invitation to have our feet smashed by her gigantic feet and our faces bashed in by her enormous flank.

Surprisingly, this doesn't always work out so well. Sometimes the suckers come loose and we have to pull off the machine until suction builds again. Sometimes she outright kicks us off, gouging our hands in the process. And sometimes, albeit rarely, the machine flies off the strap and tips over entirely, milk either spilling out onto the floor or backflowing into the suction tubes.

In such an event all we can say is, You win, Banjo.

This farm is only a year in the making, and so much infrastructure is not yet in place. Like a functional milking stanchion. Or a chicken coop that isn't sinking into an eroding hillside. Or an isolation area for new chicks. Or a garden of raised beds. Or fences that actually do their job. Sometimes I look around and all I see are problems, mistakes, disasters in the making (or already made and not yet repaired). Most of the time, I feel paralyzed, incapable of making positive decisions to take corrective or preventive action -- I just go through the motions of milking-feeding-tending and try not to look too closely at the fences or the garden or the coop.

And I'll admit, I've been poised to throw in the towel. I've been exhausted far past the limit of my capabilities and considered how nice it would be to work on a developed farm that's already been carefully managed for several years by highly experienced labor. Or maybe I should go back to renting and just resign myself to the organic section of the supermarket. For now, the benefits side of this equation is outweighing the costs, but I can't promise those scales won't tip. Sometimes I have to sit down and consciously remind myself of the math so I don't go running screaming out to the highway.

Cue gratuitous chick-pic:

Okay, it's still worth it.