I went out now on the veranda, and on the street from childhood a familiar smell stands. The smell of bread with domestic, clean, cared for cattle. There is something from the fertilizer, but more from the heat and milk. So in the yard of a good village house smells.

Soon, I was reminded of how I was eating cows. I don’t know how many of the towns can boast that they doiled a cow. I am definitely a city man. He was born and raised in Kazan, then lived in Prague, then in Washington, then in San Francisco, and now in Virginia’s Richmond. But I did the cows. For the first time a boy, at six or seven, probably. We had a country under Kazan, and now there is - on the very shore of the Volga, and on the mountain, through the forest, the village was - Troitsky. My grandmother, her soil was flourishing, often went there for steam milk and took me with her. My grandmother, with her character, clearly needed to nominate for the UN Secretary-General. No, not in the sense that she was misleading politics, she never paid attention to politics in the generally accepted sense, but she was by nature the most genuine peacemaker, able to sit at one table and Muslims, and Jews, and communists, and human rights defenders. To feed everyone with their cakes.

Here and with the owner of a cow, from whom I bought milk, my grandmother became a strong friend. Something she always brought from the city, not only went for milk, like to buy everything, but loved to sit in the guests, choking about this. At this time, I usually fed the goat on the street with bread. The animal was evil and deaf. He will eat from his hand and look in your eyes, but if the bread falls on the ground, he will not lower his tail, and he will look at you with sorrow. I had no possibility of carrying out such a goat look, and I ran into the house, shouting with all my strength: "Grandma Zhenya, aunt Zina, and my bread has fallen, and the goat is not eating, give more, and?" No, they did not give. They told him to raise the bowl, and blow off the dust, and again fed the goat with this bread. My grandmother and aunt Zina took bread seriously.

One day, my aunt Zina called me to help her feed the cow for dinner. I was tired of her inheritance then. And I’m glad, of course, I jumped. Since then, I have almost no memories. I remember only that the cow was very afraid, but will it fall asleep, or will it get sick? And aunt Zina reassured me, “Don’t be afraid, fool,” she said, “will she hurt you?” I named the cow, but I don’t remember the name. The star? No, I will not remember anymore. The cow, in my opinion, understood everything about my fears, and maybe it wasn’t easy for her to care. She did not go to bed, and the wind was tight and warm. At first I didn’t do anything at all, then Zina’s aunt said, “Don’t be afraid, stronger than the pull, stronger than the calf, he knows what a strong one is?” I pulled, pressed up, as much as the palms were enough, and down. I couldn’t get it all out, of course, wherever I was, for me, aunt Zina finished. But three or four streams in the cage I managed. I then helped filter the milk, held the marble over the cage, and Zina's aunt poured the milk through it.

This was the second time I had a cow in the army. I served in a separate radar and technical support battalion, spending most of my time at the point. Angara one point was called, long-haul drive. Indeed, it will be ten kilometers from the garrison and the airfield. The point is a hut in the steppe, with four Arharov fighters, gentlemen of service. And next to it is a dying village, an eternal fire of gas from the oil mills, and a collegiate herd. No one needed this herd. Having grazed cows, consider, by themselves, the two shepherds attributed to the herd were much more concerned with the search for the monk and the brahmi.

Satisfaction to the point we received from the garrison, once a week we went to him on Saturdays. Bread-tam, carrot, fish canned, potatoes, vegetables. Everything needs to be washed, of course. But, it was hard to drag in the winter, through the snow, and in the summer - one pleasure. You do not rush into the part, then back, and no one fucking boss is around you! I loved such walks. We went together, but we couldn’t tell each other.

This time (I was already a grandfather, by the way) we and the Slavka-steglo, filled with a portion of supplies, returned home to the point. Gloriously went, around the steppe, two fence forest plantations - one behind, the other in front. I don’t know if these stripes of trees were really planted perpendicular to the runway to protect the airfield from a nuclear explosion, or if it was an army bike, but it was thought so. And whatever the difference, why they were planted, in these landings, the crowd of submarines grew, so that the benefits from them were undoubted.

And in the field, the most homeless herd of cows, the heads of fifty, one cow noticed us and Slavka, and went to us. Nothing like that, bitten, and wiped to the ground, milk is barely soaking. And so I suddenly wanted a pair of milk - the head turned. I never liked milk, but I wanted to: two years in SA, see, affected. I say to Slawka, “Weather, let’s drink milk.” From the backpack he got a bucket, broke the edge, and to the cow. The catering took, delicately so, it immediately became clear that she would share the milk with us.

The dishes with them, indeed, no one, but the cow is kind, affectionate. In general, it was not, I lay under her feet, and directly into my mouth sprinkled milk. I ask, “Do you want it yourself?” He doesn’t mind, but the cow doesn’t know how to feed. “Well, I say, go to bed under the debris, I’ll sneeze.” He took the risk.

Both were packed, but the milk was drunk. We went on, pleased. And the cow followed us, and mocked Edak, sad. I immediately understood her: we dropped the drops, and her whirlpool is overcrowded, and who and when it will be again, it is unclear.

“Well,” I said, “go then, blue.” It brought her to the point. A couple of times the bread had to attract attention. Generally speaking, I took one bucket. But the cow did not hurt us - a good cane of milk gave us. We all drank it, really could not - it was hot, and the refrigerator is tiny. Only two-thirds did it.

And the cow and then often to our Angara-one sheep came, we fed her with bread and seed, and she fed us with milk.

So many years have passed, but still, I think, my Angara-one stands in the steppe. And,, so to the current soldiers some cowboy comes for bread, and milk to share with them. Good service to you guys.