We were enjoying conversation as we milked the cows Sunday night together. Jake talked constantly while I listened and intervened with a directive here and there.

In between “My fantasy football team is beating Dewey’s team and I’ve still got three more players to go” and “Your team isn’t doing so well, Mom, you need to trade Randy Johnson for-”
“She’s done; dip another cow, Jake.”

One milker fell off and then another, and then another, until I saw clearly we had a problem. Upon further investigation and a call to the boss, it was determined that we had to have a new motor for the milk pump. With half the cows milked and waiting for the repairman, we hung up our dippers and the crew went to the house.
I worked at my computer, washed and folded five loads of laundry, popped some popcorn, played some cards and enjoyed part of a movie while I waited to hear the vacuum pump turn on letting me know the problem was fixed. At 10:35 pm, I heard music I was waiting for, the pump roared on and I headed back across the road.

Making sure everything was running smoothly before I began milking again, I walked in the milk house and the boss told me we had to get the cows back in.

What? You mean you turned the cows out? And now we have to get the unmilked cows back in? Seriously? The only other question I had was: Who came up with this plan?

I walked down the ramp and opened the gate, and a storm of unmilked cows came bursting into the barn. They knew where they belonged and it wasn’t outside at the feed bunk. Underestimating my husband’s plan, I reconciled that maybe he wasn’t so misguided after all.

The rush was over when I looked out into the dimly lit barnyard and saw there were just a few cows left to come in. It was then I figured my husband to be a genius, when I saw the gate to the pasture was shut and I surmised he must have let the milked cows out first to eat, then pushed them into the pasture, closed the gate and then let the unmilked cows out to eat.

What a guy! He’s so smart.

Then I realized maybe I had given credit where credit wasn’t due, as I watched an unmilked cow slip through a small opening in the pasture gate. There were a handful of unmilked cows wandering around in the pasture and had to be brought back to the barn – pronto.

Calling in the reinforcements, we entered the dark pasture and began sorting black-and-white cows with full udders from black-and-white cows with empty udders. Hearing a frustrated boss in the back of the pasture calling his cows by name and speaking to them in full sentences, I began to laugh as I thought about how silly we must have looked.

Dewey would say, “What about this one?” And I would answer back, “Um … let’s see … ah … nope, she can stay, but that one right over there, that black one … she needs to go.”

“Which one? This one?”
“I can’t see where you’re pointing, Dewey.”
“Right there, see her?”
“Hey watch behind you, she needs to go up.”
“Maylene, we don’t need you!”
“Get up to that barn, Lucie!”
“Has anyone seen Bonnie?”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s black, with a full udder.”
“Oh.”

And the chasing ensued for at least 45 minutes, until finally all but two were in their stalls and ready for some milking action. Showered and ready for bed, Sarah donned her chore clothes to help me finish up the milking while the others went on a search for two renegade three-year-olds.

Crawling into bed at midnight, I tried to find the good in the situation. I commented to a sleepy husband, “Better to have the motor burn up now than when we’re gone away from home.”
He answered back, “Whatever you say, Melissa.”

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers with questions or comments for Melissa Hart may write to her in care of this publication.