The major failing of the cow is that it cannot milk itself. Thus, as children, we were invariably at home on Boxing Day, with the knowledge that between milkings there were several hours which my father instinctively knew needed to be put to productive use.
Public holidays, it seems, were
anathema to him.
So, weather permitting, Boxing Day was when we would invariably start making hay.
Despite this, Boxing Day was then, and remains now, my favourite day of the festive season, for by then the almost banal drama of Christmas has passed.
But times have changed. With the advent of larger, less time-consuming, round hay bales, it isn't as critical to begin haymaking at this time.
So it was, at lunch-time one Boxing Day a few years back, that a large contingent of my whanau were seated around my brother's kitchen table on the farm.
As we began eating the better part of a plump heifer I noticed that a few metres away, across the lawn, standing at the fence, four bovine eyes were peering intently at us.
This in itself wasn't unusual, nor off-putting. What was unusual and off-putting was what the curious cattle were doing while staring at us. Their actions may have escaped attention had I not started sniggering.
It seems that another failing of the cow is a lack of modesty. For several seconds no one spoke, as we all watched them watching us while they copulated.
Steaks cooled beneath an exhalation of laughter.
My grandmother looked resolutely at her meal. So did my grandfather, the whisper of a smirk hidden behind a mouthful of salad.
"Charming", was all my mother could mutter.
The amorous cattle, once satiated, casually strolled away. Eating resumed. But the plates were only half empty before they returned to once again stare fixedly at us while entertaining themselves.
For a fleeting second a look passed between the bull and I, and I finally understood why my father had insisted we work on public holidays: you have to make hay while the sun shines.
