I have a cow in Wisconsin named after me. While this might seem like a questionable honor, perhaps one bordering on insult, I am so dang proud. My daughter’s best friend, Amanda, the young gypsy traveling and working in New Zealand for a year, calls a farm in Wisconsin home. A number of years ago Amanda’s family named one of their cows “Sasha” in honor of my daughter. Sasha the cow was only so-so as far as the world of cows go and was ultimately sold. This cow alter-ego disappointment became great fodder for jokes and teasing, but my daughter accepted her loss.
Then in a twist of fate, Amanda’s family named a cow Gail, and another cow, Sasha. (However the record keeper misspelled it on the form and the cow is registered as Shasta. I don’t know why, but I find this really funny. It’s kinda like when my daughter was on a cruise ship and someone thought her name was Salmon. Too funny. Fishy, but funny.)
A dichotomy was born… Sasha and Gail became competitors. (The cows, and therefore vicariously, mother and daughter.) We get updates on which cow is pregnant, which cow is a better milker, which cow has a better temperament, and which cow the family likes better based on all of the above.
This cow report card starts a volley of snarky emails between my daughter and I, which are both amusing and a way to keep our wit sharpened. Last night Amanda sent out an email saying Gail the cow had failed to get impregnated at the proper time. Sasha, however, was in the family way. (The cow! Not the daughter!) I pleaded my cow’s case. She is selective. Not every line of bull ends in a sexual encounter with Gail…unlike some albeit more slutty cows I know. Amanda assured me that Gail is still near and dear to her father’s heart despite her prudish ways, and not facing a sale. Whew! I plan on milking my cow status for as long as possible. Maybe it’s udderly ridiculous, but Gail the cow’s moral standards are the best part of my day.