Here’s another great short story by farmer Brindley Hosken.
Whenever I showed visitors around my milking parlour, usually their first question was, “do you ever get kicked.” The answer surprisingly was, not very often. I was kicked in the leg once and knocked down into the shi**y straw. This was probably my own fault for not letting the cow know I was there. In the parlour I would occasionally get a whack on the arm, usually as a result of not concentrating on what I was doing. The cows that kicked every milking were not the problem but the cows that were quiet for a fortnight and then lashed out with no warning were the frightening cows. It was not long before they were “up the road” (that’s a euphemism for, made into beef burgers). I did not worry about a little tap as long as I had a nice bruise to garner sympathy with. “That’s not much of a bruise, I don`t know what you are fussing about.”
The worst kick I ever had was not by a cow but by a donkey. He was rolling in the dust and I gave him a poke with my boot. He got up and let fly with both barrels, catching me with them both. He then trotted off into the field. I swear he was laughing at me, not that I could see him, I was doubled over with my hands on my knees as wave after wave of pain washed through and over me. After fifteen minutes I finally managed to straighten up and tottered down to the yard. Thankfully it did no permanent damage but it was the closest thing I ever got to a Do It Yourself Vasectomy.