Bossy was our milk-producing bovine. The trite name did not disguise the fact that she had her own strong personality, and cuddliness was not one of her traits. Before school, I’d position myself on a three-legged stool and lean my head against her side as I tried to squeeze out a bucket full of warm milk. The sound of the liquid hitting the stainless-steel pail might lull me into a zen stupor, but Bossy knew how to keep me grounded. A sudden back-leg kick could send the bucket flying, or a slow wave of her tail could fling mud and manure at my face.

Most sessions ended with a certain bucolic aura–Bossy would grind away at the grain mixture, the barn cat would lick off the milk I’d squirted onto its fur, and I’d lug the milk to the kitchen before spending time getting the smell of a cow’s udder off my hands before boarding the yellow school bus.