I drove to work one morning a couple of months ago knowing that Dakota was very sick and I expected to find her, separate from the other milk cows, in the pole barn. Allison had sent me an email about that. Twice my phone rang that previous night and both times, my heart sort of sank. Dakota is older. Allison owns her and she is dearly loved, a favorite, a pet. I was very happy to hear from telemarketers that night. A phone call about Dakota would have been bad. Upon arrival I fed the milk cows, counted them, put Grenadine--a young heifer who'd slipped out, under hot wire, to graze hay with the milk cows in the lane--back up in her paddock. Then I walked to the pole barn and flipped on the light.

I expected to find Dakota. And she was there. I didn't expect to find her wrapped up. She was swaddled in a quilt, handmade in deep blues with very tiny flowers scattered over the patchwork. Clearly, Allison had taken the quilt off her bed and had been down in the middle of the night to make sure Dakota wasn't cold. And that's exactly as she was now. I don't think she'd moved, except to lay down, since being covered. The house lights were off and I knew Allison was sound asleep, or else she'd be standing next to me. So I was pretty sure Dakota had been snuggled under Allison's quilt for quite awhile, staying still and keeping warm. The quilt was so dear and unexpected, but the fact that she hadn't moved enough to throw off a blanket struck me as a bit ominous. Tears stung my eyes but I blinked them back and kept moving. There was a lot of work to get done.

When Allison showed up in the milking parlor, two hours later, I could hardly meet her eyes. But we were going to have to acknowledge the situation and we're both professionals. So I asked how she was doing and told her I could hardly keep from crying, just to ask. She said she cried all night long. Dakota is old for a working dairy cow. Two of her herd mates were scheduled to be culled later this week. No one was speaking the c-word.

Allison said, "The thing you have to understand about Dakota is that ever since she was about six months old she's held her head up with her ears up and her bright eyes following me all over the farm saying, 'Aren't you going to spend some more time with me?!' She's the only cow on this farm that ever cared about me, personally. And we grew up together here, just like that. We've always had a connection."

This all happened a couple of months ago. Dakota recovered from all that---ugly mastitis with a lick of pneumonia on top. But the writing was on the wall and we all knew it. When she started kicking badly a couple of weeks ago, it was time. Though no one wanted to say it out loud. And, bravely, it was Allison who made the call. She's said almost from the time I started working on the farm, "Dakota is going to have to go and I don't want her to go suffering. I want her to go well." People say these kinds of things about their pets: We'll know when its time. We don't want him/her to suffer. We'll do the right thing. But few ever follow through with that promise. Allison, though, her integrity runs deep. She is cold steel serious about loving these cows. Even when love asks the hardest thing.

Allison cried everyday for a week before Dakota left. She had to leave the farm, her home, and even our town entirely the day Dakota was loaded for the abattoir. In preparation Allison told us that she understands she is loved and everyone cares, but no one is to mention Dakota's name for awhile because she can't stop crying. It hurts too much. On Dakota's last Friday we pulled her, her daughers, and her granddaughters out for a family portrait. That is what Allison wanted. That's what we did.

 After that, though? No one has said much else. Life is moving along on the farm. True winter is about to set in with ice and the carrying of buckets of warm water and the other extra chores winter brings. No one says much but you can see it in Allison's eyes: "That cow is only one of them who ever loved me."