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Walzie is a true-blue cowpuncher. Not only because as a kid he idolized Roy Rogers and Gene Autry, but also because he could throw a punch like Mike Tyson and knockout a cow. No, I am not kidding. She wasn’t just a teeny-weeny heifer either – a big twelve hundred pound milking cow. Let me elaborate.
He spent a few years working on a dairy farm in Warriors Mark. Walzie was a young scrapper full of spit and vinegar, and he spent many long hard hours baling hay, tossing hundred pound feed sacks, pulling calves (for you city-folks, that’s when the mother cow cannot birth the calf and someone has to go in and pull the calf out), and all those miscellaneous heavy-duty farming jobs. He was as strong as an ox and proud of it. (All that strength has since gone to his butt. It comes in handy now for holding down his wild bucking-bronco of a Lazy Boy.)
I hate to point out this fact to you animal activists, but when a cow has outlived her usefulness as a milker, she’s sent off to become hamburger. Walzie’s job was to round up old Bessie and herd her into the holding pen to wait for the slaughter truck. (The holding pen is an area where the herd of cows stands as they wait to enter the parlor at milking time.) Do you know what is left on the concrete floor after a hundred cows stand there for two hours? Well, it ain’t pretty, its ankle deep, and smells pretty funky.
So Walzie and Bessie sloshed through the muck and he closed the gate behind her. He left the cow to mill around the pen until the truck came, and then he went inside the milk house to wash up the dairy equipment.
Finally, the truck from Louie Kline’s Meat Shop pulled in and backed up to the loading ramp. Walzie began to shush Bessie toward the truck. Bessie must have known where this little bon voyage party was heading because she balked and ran to the back of the holding pen. Walzie ran behind her, slipping and sliding in the “you know what”, waving his arms to guide her in the right direction. Bessie ran from him, but suddenly she skidded to a stop. Bessie spun around and stared straight at Walzie. He was standing in the opening to the manure pit. (That’s where the farmer scrapes the “you know what” from the floor and stores it for use as fertilizer later.) Bessie dropped her head and charged Walzie like a bull. She was coming fast. Walzie didn’t have time to think. If they both tumbled into the pit, neither one would come out smelling like a rose, if indeed they came out at all. He let his fist fly and caught her flat on the cheek. It cracked like a 30.06 rifle shot. Bessie went down as if hit by a ten pound sledgehammer – knocked out cold.
Walzie shook out his fist, stretched his fingers, and went for the tractor. They pushed poor old unconscious Bessie onto the truck and away she finally went.
Later Walzie went to unload a tandem truckload of hay into the barn. He noticed his fingers tingling, but didn’t think much about it. Later that night he awoke to a throbbing hand that looked like it belonged to a Sasquatch. His middle knuckle was shoved two inches closer to his wrist and twice the size as normal. Mr. Tough Guy never did get it fixed; he’s still got a nasty-looking knuckle, but he learned not to go around punching cows anymore.
Twenty years later, we were at a picnic in Claysburg with some friends. We were introduced to our friend’s uncle. She told him that we were from Warriors Mark.
“Oh I used to haul cows from down that way,” Uncle Jim said. “I remember a fellow from there that punched a cow. Really! Knocked her out flat. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been telling that story all over the county for the past twenty years or so. I’ll never forget it.”
Walzie and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Yep,” Walzie said proudly showing his nasty knuckle to Uncle Jim. “That fellow was me.”
One never knows what strange tales may follow you forever. Watch your step, it’s a small, small world, and I wouldn’t go around punching any cows if I were you.
He spent a few years working on a dairy farm in Warriors Mark. Walzie was a young scrapper full of spit and vinegar, and he spent many long hard hours baling hay, tossing hundred pound feed sacks, pulling calves (for you city-folks, that’s when the mother cow cannot birth the calf and someone has to go in and pull the calf out), and all those miscellaneous heavy-duty farming jobs. He was as strong as an ox and proud of it. (All that strength has since gone to his butt. It comes in handy now for holding down his wild bucking-bronco of a Lazy Boy.)
I hate to point out this fact to you animal activists, but when a cow has outlived her usefulness as a milker, she’s sent off to become hamburger. Walzie’s job was to round up old Bessie and herd her into the holding pen to wait for the slaughter truck. (The holding pen is an area where the herd of cows stands as they wait to enter the parlor at milking time.) Do you know what is left on the concrete floor after a hundred cows stand there for two hours? Well, it ain’t pretty, its ankle deep, and smells pretty funky.
So Walzie and Bessie sloshed through the muck and he closed the gate behind her. He left the cow to mill around the pen until the truck came, and then he went inside the milk house to wash up the dairy equipment.
Finally, the truck from Louie Kline’s Meat Shop pulled in and backed up to the loading ramp. Walzie began to shush Bessie toward the truck. Bessie must have known where this little bon voyage party was heading because she balked and ran to the back of the holding pen. Walzie ran behind her, slipping and sliding in the “you know what”, waving his arms to guide her in the right direction. Bessie ran from him, but suddenly she skidded to a stop. Bessie spun around and stared straight at Walzie. He was standing in the opening to the manure pit. (That’s where the farmer scrapes the “you know what” from the floor and stores it for use as fertilizer later.) Bessie dropped her head and charged Walzie like a bull. She was coming fast. Walzie didn’t have time to think. If they both tumbled into the pit, neither one would come out smelling like a rose, if indeed they came out at all. He let his fist fly and caught her flat on the cheek. It cracked like a 30.06 rifle shot. Bessie went down as if hit by a ten pound sledgehammer – knocked out cold.
Walzie shook out his fist, stretched his fingers, and went for the tractor. They pushed poor old unconscious Bessie onto the truck and away she finally went.
Later Walzie went to unload a tandem truckload of hay into the barn. He noticed his fingers tingling, but didn’t think much about it. Later that night he awoke to a throbbing hand that looked like it belonged to a Sasquatch. His middle knuckle was shoved two inches closer to his wrist and twice the size as normal. Mr. Tough Guy never did get it fixed; he’s still got a nasty-looking knuckle, but he learned not to go around punching cows anymore.
Twenty years later, we were at a picnic in Claysburg with some friends. We were introduced to our friend’s uncle. She told him that we were from Warriors Mark.
“Oh I used to haul cows from down that way,” Uncle Jim said. “I remember a fellow from there that punched a cow. Really! Knocked her out flat. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been telling that story all over the county for the past twenty years or so. I’ll never forget it.”
Walzie and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Yep,” Walzie said proudly showing his nasty knuckle to Uncle Jim. “That fellow was me.”
One never knows what strange tales may follow you forever. Watch your step, it’s a small, small world, and I wouldn’t go around punching any cows if I were you.
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