A Tribute to Penny the Lucky Cow

I’m going to tell you a story.

Nine years ago, a little girl with two pigtails and worn out boots walked onto a dairy farm to pick out her new show cow, one that she could use in 4-H. She was excited! She had some money in her pocket and a big grin on her face. The old farmer showed her around the barn and she looked at all the different calves that she could choose from. There were a lot. It was like trying to pick out a puppy from a litter of 200. There was just too much cuteness in the room to even start narrowing any sort of decision down.

I don’t know what it was about the little calf that drew me to her. Maybe it was her one cloudy eye as she tilted her head to look at me. Maybe it’s that my family has a history of having compassion on animals that are sickly looking. Maybe it was that I knew where she would end up if I didn’t take her. Maybe I just felt a connection with the strange creature. 

For whatever reason, I picked the saddest looking calf out of the whole bunch: a little blind Jersey named Penny.

We went through a good many years together. I know that sound strange. To make it easier on yourself, imagine that she was to me as a dog would be to a normal person. She was rather like a dog too. She practically rolled on her belly if you scratched her under her chin. She would follow me wherever I went, or as far as fences would allow. 

I started middle school, and just when the world seemed to be falling all apart (and believe me, as a middle school girl, it does that a lot), Penny would be the shoulder I would cry on, be it a hairy, semi-smelly shoulder. 

She was the luckiest little cow anybody had ever seen. The little cow that could, if you will. We defied all

odds, my cow and I. County fair proved to be a stressful time. All my peers showed top-of-the-line Holsteins. Despite their disdain at my little Jersey cow and even the cynical smirk from the cute boy from the Beef Barn every time he walked by, I stood up straight and tall (all of 5 feet), gritted my teeth, and acted like I was showing the finest cow in all the world. It was probably quite comical to watch me show my 800-lb. Jersey next to the other massive creatures, but like any good Reams, I didn’t let it get to me. I don’t think the judges even realized my cow was blind; they remained in a constant state of awe at how well-behaved she was. One judge said, “I’m just amazed at how this young lady and her cow float around the ring.” I think we ended up winning Grand Champion Showman one year. 

She had a calf in 2006, and I got off of school early. Dakota McBeth and I pulled and pulled until the calf finally popped out. It was gross. And beautiful. I was disgusted. And kind of in awe. It was a boy, and I was sad. I milked her for a total of 8 brutal months after that, morning and night lugging the 20-lb. milking machine out to the dark and cold barn. Besides instilling some form of work ethic in me, the only good thing about it was the unending supply of cheese we had, which Mother was so good at making. I remember missing a lot of late-night social events to sit by a cow’s udder, but perhaps in the end that was my parent’s evil plot… to keep me from getting into trouble. 

The year I started high school she fell into the river. We were walking back from the swimming hole on a day in early June when our horse, Indio, came rampaging across the field, almost trampling us where we stood. Indio and Penny were buddies. The closest of friends. Whenever we went out riding, Indio would strain at the bit to race back home to Penny. They were like Bonnie and Clyde. Abbott and Costello. Except, you know, they were a horse and a cow. 

Anyway, he led us over to the edge of the field, where Penny was floundering in the water. Because the field was much higher than the river, and there was no way to get her out of the muck. She had to wait until the morning, tied to an old stump. They pulled her out with a backhoe. It was really a community effort. Lee Davis, the local cattleman was there, offering vague instructions and making smart-ass comments. Phillip the old deaf farmer ran the backhoe, calmly disregarding the fact that he teetered on the edge of falling in too. Uncle Brady… well, he was just there. You know how men are.

She survived the ordeal, but was never quite the same. She couldn’t have any more calves. It was hard for her to walk up hills. I realized I couldn’t take her to fair anymore. It was saddening.  None of us had the heart to send her to the butcher, but she was a liability to the farm. So we retired her to a green pasture where she could graze peacefully. There would be no more hooking a piece of rope on her halter and letting Chad and Chase or Diana ride her across the field. No more walking her into the show ring, no more getting up early every morning  to milk her. But she remained on the farm, and the question asked me by many a houseguest we had during that time is, “Do you still have Penny?” I said yes.

Well, today I had to say goodbye to Penny. It is not an easy thing, but life is full of things that are hard. You learn growing up on a farm to expect the unexpected. Animals die, the cows eat the entire bean patch, and the hay gets rained on. Probably most influential, little girls grow up. I do not like getting attached to animals. I think they are generally for eating, but Penny will leave a little hole in my heart. Perhaps it’s because I see the transition between the little girl I was and the woman I’m becoming. 

I hope you can relate to this story. The reality is, you probably can’t, unless you shared in one of these memories or had a pet cow of your own, which is highly unlikely. Those who know of this tale already know that it is not meant to make you laugh or cry. It is simply a tribute to a legend and a season that has now passed on, something I will tell my children someday. It’s a story of a strange and unlikely friendship. And best of all, it is true.

After all we’ve been through,
Goodbye, my Penny, I will miss you.