Rosie cow, that enormously fat creature fed by her mum for 13 years, is no more. Her arthritis eventually made walking so painful that I called my neighbour to put her out of her misery. She was fifteen and a half, and had definitely enjoyed a good life.

But with her gone my latest ‘wished on me’ South Devon, named Arabella, was terribly lonely and bellowed for hours. A friend was called for, but nobody offered one, so I enquired of the local stock agent in Morrinsville how I could buy one.

“We’re having a sale tomorrow,” he said. “Come early, perhaps pay cash as it’s only one, and we’ll sort something out.”

I’ve always found sale yards a bit scary. All those trucks disgorging multiple cows, much rushing along races and opening and closing of gates, and everyone else seems to know what they’re doing. Not to mention that high-level walking on narrow boards to check what’s there.

Making friends –Arabella cautiously greets Matilda shortly after she arrived on Sue Edmond’s property.

Temperament of import

I sought advice from two fellows about my age on what to do. “How do I buy one cow?”

“Ask that fella over there in the blue jacket, he’ll buy it for you.” I explained to said fella that it would be just one cow, and for cash. “That’s okay. Just pick one out and be standing by me when it comes up,” he said.

I’d been told that a good temperament was so important, and quickly found one Jersey standing in a pen by herself, who gazed at me solemnly and seemed calm. My stipulations included a cow being brown, so she seemed doubly suitable. I then informed everyone, including my buyer that the cow in 73 was my choice, and spent some time sitting near her.

She was the last to be sold after four crowded rows had been dealt with. During the morning I had been told by various people how much they guessed she would fetch and had my fingers firmly crossed, remembering my bank balance.

Maybe everyone took pity on me, or nobody wanted just one cow, but she turned out to be a bargain. I dashed to the bank, collected the cash, returned and handed it over and then asked “How do I get her home?”

Lost cow

“See that guy over there, he’ll take her for you.” So more clambering along the walkways, and arrangements made. “She’ll be there in an hour or an hour and a half,” said my rescuer.

So I went home and waited for an hour at my neighbour’s yards, and then another hour at my front gate. Finally a smaller blue truck appeared with one cow in it. She had been dropped off at the wrong farm and had to be collected again.

We drove down the race to the yards, but then found the ground so boggy that the truck couldn’t back up to the loading race. Fortunately there was a big pile of grassy soil in the middle of the turning circle so we used that and she obligingly jumped out.

She was starving and grabbing green stuff with great fervour, but I eventually managed to get her trotting down the race. She stopped halfway and looked back to see if I was following, then ran past the open paddock gate, but stopped at my driveway and was willing to be ushered into the garden.

Night in the garden

By then it was nearly dark, so she stayed there overnight. In the morning she appeared on the back lawn where the others were already lined up for their bins of hay. She solemnly ate her share and then bellowed to be let into the paddock where she nearly drank the trough dry.

Since then she and Arabella have become friends. The new cow produced an afterbirth over the next 24 hours and I managed to confirm, via several agents, that she had ‘slipped’ the Sunday before, with no obvious milk, and been sent to the sale yards on the Friday. When I told the final agent she had ended up at the ‘Eureka retirement home for cows, donkeys and goats’ he promised to tell the previous owner, amid gales of laughter.

Her name is now Matilda and she’s fully settled.