MILKING 157 



her head round, caught me in the rear with her 

 knobby horns, butted me within reach of her 

 hind leg, kicked me back, butted me again, and I 

 escaped only by abjectly crawling out of the stall. 



I threw up the sponge. It was a clean knock- 

 out. I could not have gone back into the ring if 

 the referee had counted one hundred. But I felt 

 that if that cow was not milked that night, there 

 was danger of an explosion before morning, so 

 I called in a neighbour of ripe experience, who, 

 to my great horror, took a seat on the off side of 

 the animal. 



"Look out.'* I yelled, "don't get on that side, 

 she will kill you." 



"What are you talking about?" he inquired, 

 with astonishment, "have you been milking on 

 the right side?" 



"Yes," I replied, " of course I have." 



"Why, you plumb idiot, it was a wonder she 

 didn't kill you," he replied. 



"She has," I assured him. 



Since that time my intimacy with that cow has 

 ripened into true friendship. We get along charm- 

 ingly. Like Bill Nye's cow, she gives milk fre- 

 quently. She has phenomenal digestive powers 

 and eats continuously. What becomes of her food 

 is a question to baffle a government expert. She 

 has not gained an ounce of flesh. Theoretically, 

 she ought to give about forty quarts per day. 



