Pecking Disorder

Three

Three – Xerxes The Cow. NoBull.

I hurry outside to breathe real air. Atlast. No smoke. An inconsistent breeze flips a faint tinge of hopsabout. The last of the crop has been picked a week but there’sstill a whiff of slowly decaying vines and squashed petals. TheMayne house is above the Pride of Ringwoods, an Australian varietyof hops my father grows because they suit Australianconditions.

‘Australian conditions’.This term has a sudden credence. It rings in my ears. The tone isclear. Precise.

Only one variety is right for theseconditions.

Substitute last night.

Only one way is normal.

This is also an Australian condition.

Especially in these parts.

I peer down into the ‘normal’ hops. As Ihaven’t been home for four weeks I’m taken aback with what I seebelow. Twenty acres of bare fields with their cut vines dangle fromthe man-made mounds. An endless sea of tasseled breasts. No amountof mental preparation can counter the effect of such a profoundchange to the landscape. I am witnessing death in this vista ofmultiple torsos spread across an expandable mortuary table. A monthearlier the clutter of leathery hops hung like evergreenchandeliers. It’s hard to comprehend that come spring, new lifewill sprout from the sagging bumps. A spindly cross stitch ofshadows, the result of an insipid late autumn sun, ebbs andflows.

The hot water in the milk bucket interruptsme. It slops gently like an incoming tide, a perfect complement tothe sun’s shadows. Two sheepdogs run excited circles on theirlengthy chains. They are pleased to see anyone. Not just me. Thestimulus of distant sheep, a nearby cow and a nosy pig warranttheir release but they remain tied, loyal and nonjudgmental.

The house cow covered in black continents ona white ocean moos quietly. She waits patiently outside thecowshed. Her inquisitive ears suggest an extra set of eyes tooffset her real ones. Eighty One is a Friesian. Her name is herprice. Bought by Phillip for eighty one dollars at the Bridgewatermarket ‘cause she looked good’.

I breathe and swallow rural air. It is niceto swap cigarettes, motor vehicles and a dense city for mountainair, manure and hops. The current smells unleash memories fromchildhood. They evoke images of domesticated animals that aretrained and obedient. Animal husbandry at its practiced best.However, the previous night bubbles beneath the surface.

The out breath is full of decisions andindecisions.

I put Eighty-One in the cow stall. A calfthat runs at her side during the day goes inside its shed for thenight. I wash the cow’s udder then position my bum on an apple casewhich has assumed the shape of a concertina. Eighty-One turns herhead revealing global eyes that reflect the growing shadows.

I can see two columns of smoke from thechimneys, a reminder that discussions are still in progress. Iposition myself to milk Eighty One out. The cow obliges by shiftingher near hoof back so I can wrap my legs around the bucket. Sheturns her head and moos quietly to the calf who bellowsacknowledgement. I place my hands on her t**s, rest my head on herflank and begin to milk.

The touch.

As soon as I squeeze, it’s Michael. Hard asit is I try not to compare Eighty One’s t**s with Michael’s c**k. Ihave to ignore the growing erection en route to my left knee and amuncertain whether I am being aroused by man or beast.

Perhaps it’s too much husbandry?

But then it is Xerxes, yesterday’s historyand the assignment I have to finish. The smoke from the chimneysrenders me suddenly limp.

The frothy milk climbs halfway up thebucket. The flaccid udder with the texture of an empty hot waterbottle flops about ungainly, indicating that Eighty One has givenher all. The rest has been taken by her calf during the day. Irelease the cow, feed her a bale of clover hay and wonder if thetwo columns of smoke will happily intertwine as a portent thatthings inside are resolved.

I slip slop down the hill with the milk. Thefroth has already dissipated. Esmeralda the house sow is heavilypregnant. She shoves her snout through the wire mesh covering thegate to her paddock. The dogs go crazy. Dreams of being unchainedand hassling the portly pig become their priority. I stop to allowthe reality of the changed landscape to synchronize with my pastimagining. The breeze blows a final chiffon shadow over thedeparting sun and the lifeless breasts.

I wonder what will greet me inside once Ihave strained the milk in the bucket and fed the pig. House isturning to home again. I hear the rattle of cutlery.

How many will there be for tea? What willthey talk about? Will there be any talk?

Tonight the difference between the outsideand the inside is more like the difference between heaven andhell.

Michael, Eighty-One, Xerxes orEsmeralda.

As far as I know none of them smoke.