cattle tales

When it comes to cows, I'm with the Hindu faith--there is something god-like in cattle. I don't know if it's their supreme docility, in combination with their massive strength and size that makes them seem worthy of reverence, or whether it's the magical way they occupy a farmer's field like an art installation or piece of sculpture.

This lesser quality has obsessed me ever since I was a little girl. Riding in the backseat of the car, as we drove through the countryside to my grandparents, I remember being transfixed by the quiet beauty and power of cows in the landscape. My mother taught me the various names and breeds of dairy cows. By the time I was three, I could rhyme off and identify Jersey, Guernsey and Holstein. Creamy Jerseys were the prettiest. But the graphic black and white of Holsteins were always my favourite.

This giant toy replica of a cow has a sweet face, a working head and tail, a bell that rings when you move its head up and down and a convincing rubber udder that used to work. I found it at one of my favourite antique dealer's in Toronto--a place called Abraham's that recently burnt down, but according to a small sign out front , is supposed to rise again one day from the ashes. Abraham is a mysterious individual, with an odd taste for things that I too find compelling. He had taxidermy on the walls and old medical supplies long before it was fashionable. Once when I came in looking for a beat-up Persian library style carpet, he led me into a back room full to the ceiling with rugs that looked like props from a Merchant Ivory film. Anyhow, Abraham had found this large plastic Holstein from an old kindergarten, where it was an instructional tool for presumably big-city children like me to learn about cows and how they worked.

When I told Abraham that I just had to have it, he was pleased because he loved it too. Now it sits on my family room credenza, guarding the books and family photos like a visitor from the country and another, gentler time. Here, in this photo, Susan has given him his field back, and it's a lovely one, with gently rolling, tilled hills of wrapping paper and a friendly paper sun.

KvH