A few nights ago, we watched a Tom Selleck movie called “Twelve Mile Road.” It was about a divorced farmer living on a farm in Oregon whose girlfriend and teenage daughter move in with him at about the time that his wild and unpredictable daughter comes to spend the summer on the farm.
It was a so-so movie, fairly predictable, but nonetheless entertaining. Having grown up on a farm, I was struck by a little twinge of nostalgia as I watched the film: the haying, the machinery, the cows, you know. But what struck me most of all was that the farmer had no names for his cows! At the end of the movie, the wild daughter forms a bond with a calf and names it.
When I was a kid, growing up on farm between Konitzer Road and the Oconto River south of Oconto Falls, all of our cows had names. I think a lot of people have no problem giving names to their pets but might think it’s weird to name dairy animals. But Dad named all the cows and calves and always remembered every one. He never would have stooped to giving them numbers.
How do you go about naming a calf or a cow? I suppose it depends on your personality — or the animal’s personality? I’m pretty sure the cows didn’t care; I’m positive they didn’t know their names. You couldn’t call them like you could a dog, for instance, but Dad’s beloved bovines all had names!
When I think about naming animals, I’m always reminded of an entry in “Adam’s Diary” by Mark Twain. In case you’re not familiar with the work, Adam keeps a diary in the Garden of Eden, and when the new “long-haired creature” joins him in the garden, he is fascinated (and irritated) when she starts naming things. Here’s a short excerpt:
“TUESDAY — Been examining the great waterfall. It is the finest thing on the estate, I think. The new creature calls it Niagara Falls — why, I am sure I do not know. Says it LOOKS like Niagara Falls. That is not a reason; it is mere waywardness and imbecility. I get no chance to name anything myself. The new creature names everything that comes along, before I can get in a protest. And always that same pretext is offered — it LOOKS like the thing.”
Coming up with an appellation for a calf or a cow probably had nothing to do with how the animal looked, at least I don’t think Dad considered that when he announced the new names. We didn’t have a big herd, seldom more than 40 animals, maybe 30 milk cows and 10 calves. But keeping that many names and identities separate was no problem.
Dad had a propensity for flower names for the cows. We had names like Buttercup, Petunia, Lily, Rosie, Marigold, Dahlia, Daisy, Blossom and Violet. There were a few with women’s names (but never with names of women or girls we knew!): Mollie, Gertie, Penny, Nettie, Belle.
We never had a Bossie or a Bessie or an Elsie. Elsie was a Borden cow; we sold our milk to Morning Glory Cooperative!
We had one cow named Topsy; I don’t know where that came from.
I can’t ever remember being consulted about the names; that wasn’t in my job description. The names didn’t come from any pedigree papers because we didn’t have pedigreed cows.
Our cows were all bred through artificial insemination, so the sires were all purebred but the cows weren’t. Except for one! We had one cow named Lochinvar Rue Paladin, and she was special! I won Lochinvar (what kind of endearing name is that?) as first prize in an essay-writing contest when I was 12.
She was a very young calf, she was purebred, and she was beautiful! I was very proud of her — my very own calf, earned by my own talents! Lochinvar remained a part of Dad’s herd for many years and produced about 10 calves, all purebred because Lochinvar was pedigreed as were all the sires, but we never bothered to get the papers.
None of Lochinvar’s calves ever got three-word names like their mother; they all became Rose or Mollie, or whatever struck Dad’s fancy when they were born.
I’ve told this story before, but I’ll tell it again. When I was sure I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Marilyn, I was a penniless college student, so I asked Dad to sell one of Lochinvar’s offspring so I could buy Marilyn a ring. True story. Very romantic, right? But she still wears Lochinvar’s ring after 55 years!
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