Walk like a penguin, until the cows are out

Back in my office-job days, we would routinely get emails during the winter months from our human resources department, reminding us all to “Walk like penguins.” This, of course, was to keep us safe on icy sidewalks in hopes of avoiding any blood for the janitorial staff to clean up, evading any lawsuits from major injuries.

The catchy phrase has always stuck with me. While I never actually turn my feet out and shuffle with minimal arm movement while walking on slippery surfaces, I probably should. However, I do slow down, look ahead to plan my route and step lightly.

The second half of December has been nothing but ice around here. Somehow, I have managed to avoid any major wipeouts. I have had plenty of close encounters, and honestly, those hurt just as badly as actually falling. You throw your back out and pull seven muscles keeping yourself up. While I’m proud I still have the athleticism to counter a fall, the muscle strain, mixed with the shot of adrenaline that pulses to every extremity during the near-fall, puts me out just as bad for the next few days.

I have gotten good at gracefully trekking across the farmyard, sometimes with a 5-gallon pail of milk in hand, sometimes while snow and sleet pelt me in the face — usually keenly aware of where the ice patches are, but other times surprisingly caught off guard. Still, “Walk like a penguin” echoes through my head continuously.

But while milking cows one evening, my dad came rushing into the parlor to summon me. The dry cows were out. This night was dark and foggy, and the runaways had already made good headway in a short amount of time.

Dad had the gate open and the skid loader and tractor blockading one side, but several of them had already made their way onto the road. By pure luck, a truck was coming down the road heading towards the farm, and all I could see were the silhouettes of the cows prancing back down the road through the headlights. My dad swiftly made his way up the hill to the road to steer them back down the driveway, and I ran up farther along the hill to defend the next escape route.

It was like no ice existed. Somehow, the both of us made our way over uneven ice and snow like ballerinas.

Of course, the group of cows that were out was no ordinary bunch. Nearly all our boss cows are dry at the same time. They are like the mean girls from high school who were too cool to follow the rules. In the free stall, these are always the ones who move slowly, are the last to the parlor and basically roll their eyes at you when you need to get them up. But, in their jailbreak moment, they were like kids on Christmas morning: jumping up and down, energetically running and, of course, not going where we needed them to go.

They, too, avoided any icy falls. Both Dad and I were expecting a few to do the splits in the yard, which would have been par for the course on a night like that. Once back in the yard, the group still attempted to make their freedom last as long as possible. They darted between Dad and me and ran past where we needed them to go, but they eventually submitted to defeat. A few quick side steps and sprints to head them off were needed, again without anyone taking a digger.

Thankfully, the farm’s human resources department wasn’t watching that night. There were certainly no “Walk like a penguin” movements, but it turned out all right for all involved. The walk back to the house after that evening’s milking was a different story, and my seven strained muscles are still recovering.

Jill is a stay-at-home mom who helps part time on her family’s 140-cow dairy farm near Forest City, Minnesota. She and her husband, Aaron, have two children: Hayes and Nash.