Any fool knows one doesn't milk a cow on the left side, but Oscar doesn't give a hoot and the cow could care less. It appears, however, that Moon Beam is bellowing about something.
Photo by Dick Waterman.
by Oscar Roloff
When I laid my eyes on Moon Beam, the cow that's safely enscounced behind a barbed wire fence, an idea burst forth.
I got ahold of Dick Waterman, a skilled photo man, and broached my screwy plan to him. He fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Grinning like a kid eating a swiped watermelon, he listened, nodded.
In essence, here's what we schemed up: We walked out to the cow and I handed him my two-bit camera that works now and then. Taking my plastic milk can and plastic milking stool, I crawled under the cow and told him to begin taking some photos of me. He did. I milked away happily in wild abandon.
Of course, when milking cowsin the 1930s, we never had plastic milking pails and plastic stools. But who cares. Moon Beam could care less. All in all, it was just the fun of it all, and in such cases one works in silence, lest someone else hears of my zany ideas and beats me to the newspaper office.
When I was an underfed, 135-pound cow milker, my bosses often shouted that any cows I milked would end up becoming dry. They swore I got only half the milk a cow was capable of giving. The last boss fired me just for a little thing like that.
I have other zany subjects, such as Moon Beam, to write about. Don't you think the name Moon Beam is fitting for the fenced-in critter?