Willie & Mrs. Jones

The mid June morning promised a perfect day - I knew the sky would be a brilliant blue with masses of drifting white clouds, that there would be dew on the blackberry patch, that sunlight would be making sparkles on the water. Even before I smelled the fresh biscuits and heard Nana call me, I knew it would be the kind of day that might never come again, the kind of day that would make you weep when it ended. I scrambled into my overalls and sneakers, gave the old feather bed a lick and a promise, and raced downstairs.

My daddy was smoking and drinking coffee on the sunporch while Nana laid out slabs of bacon in an iron skillet and set it to sizzling. I ran to the door and pulled it open, anxious to be outside until breakfast and it was then that I saw the cow - she was standing with her nose just inches from the screen, tail swishing at flies and impassively chewing her cud. Nana, I said a little hesitantly, There's a cow at the back door.

Ayuh, my grandmother answered distractedly as she piled a platter high with biscuits and covered it with a warm dishtowel, and chickens in the chimney, I imagine. Go outside and play.

No, Nana, it's a real cow, I protested, She has a bell and everything.

Scat before I tan your hide, missy, my grandmother snapped, I'm busy!

Alice, my daddy said mildly from the doorway behind me, Did you know there's a cow at the back door?

Nana turned sharply and glared at him, about to grab her broom and I was sure, give us both a proper swat, when her eyes met those of the cow and widened in surprise. Good Lord, she muttered, There's a cow at the back door.

The animal in question, as if to confirm the obvious, raised her head and emitted a plaintive, sustained and ear shattering moo then nudged the screen door. It appears, my daddy commented, that we have two choices. We can ask her in or escort her home. Nana scowled at him, wiped her glasses on her apron and took a closer look. The cow looked back steadily.

I think, Nana finally said, It's Mrs. Jones. At this, the cow seemed to perk up, flicking her ears briskly and tossing her head, causing her bell to jangle. It did seem to look like Mrs. Jones, Uncle Willie's old milk cow from across the road, but it was a cow after all, and to the untrained eye, not remarkable or in any way distinctive. How can you tell? my daddy asked reasonably enough and Nana frowned, Just a feeling, she admitted, but I'm pretty sure. I was dispatched through the strawberry field, over the ditch and across the road to rouse Uncle Willie and ask if he was missing a cow - as indeed he was. Great ugly beast, he muttered as he led her away, Can't think why I still bother with you. Mrs. Jones followed, docile as a lamb and taking no offense at this verbal abuse. At the top of the driveway, she gave him an encouraging nudge and he hugged her neck before leading her across the dirt road and into the pasture.

The morning air was crisp and clear and we could hear him singing to her, a weary old man serenading an over the hill old milk cow and finding their way home together in the warm sunshine of a perfect day.

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