Good Trudy slipped and fell on the barn floor,
smooth from so many years of her entering.
Although it was not the first time she had fallen,
she was much younger then. With some help from me,
she managed to struggle back on her feet. And appeared
to be all right. But as I sat on that three-legged stool,
once again, resting my head against her warm cowbelly,
filling another Godonlyknowshowmany bucket of milk
from her udder, I saw the day Good Trudy was done.
And I was saddened more than I believed I could ever be.
For she was my Queen, the essence of the herd;
she was the host of my Holsteins, and a friend to me.