Daddy had to milk the cows twice a day, every twelve hours.  I loved to watch him as he settled down on his three-legged stool, laid his head against the cow's side and started pulling and tugging her udder until the milk came into the pail in frothy, steady streams.

Sometimes Daddy would aim one of the milk streams at the many barn cats we had.   He sprayed milk in their faces and open mouths.   The cats seemed to like it as they licked the milk off their fur.

Once Daddy sprayed milk at my face because I wanted to see what it was like.

It was awful!

I didn't like the smell or the taste of milk, warm from the cow.   I'd rather have it from the cool tin pitcher that Momma kept in the refrigerator.

I wanted to milk the cows too, but Daddy said, "Your hands are too small."

I cried and protested until Daddy let me try and milk "Granny" cow.   She was an old cow and stood quietly and patiently while I tried to milk her.

Daddy was right.  My hands were too small and I couldn't get a good enough grip on her udder to get any milk.

That night after supper, I took my little pail that used to have peanut butter in it and sat it under my dog Tuppy.   Tuppy was a big brown dog that had puppies twice a year.   She had just had eight puppies and her milkers were full.

I sat down on the ground and put my pail under her.   She stood patiently as I tugged and pulled on her, just like Daddy did with the cows.   In a few minutes, I got a couple of drops of milk.

I heard a tapping on the kitchen window and looked up to see Momma and Daddy watching me.

I jumped up and showed them the pail.   "My hands aren't too small," I yelled.   "I just needed a smaller cow!"

I don't know why, but Momma and Daddy laughed so hard tears came out of their eyes.