My Friend Buttercup

When Buttercup was a newborn, velvety, wobbly calf, my parents, my brother, and I knew she was special. We had a small herd of purebred Holstein cows and were always seeking calves with the characteristics deemed best for the breed. Buttercup had many of those qualities. More importantly, she was full of life.

“Full of life” is a description that I just now chose after first struggling to think of a way to pinpoint exactly what made Buttercup so different. By the expression, I mean that she loved every minute of existence, she felt curious about everything in her environment, she adored attention, and she looked forward to the county fair every year.

My reference to the county fair deserves explanation. After her positive experience at her first fair, when she won a championship ribbon in the coliseum, she understood that she was going to return to the fairgrounds a year later, and she stepped confidently into the pickup truck to be hauled there. The darling of children, Buttercup occupied a corner stall in the dairy barn. She extended her nose and graceful neck toward boys and girls who ran up to pet her throughout the sunny days. She mooed pleasantly and fluttered her long lashes in a pretense of being bashful.

She knew she was divine. Never conceited, though, she would not permit her recognition of her own beauty to turn her head; rather, she kept the common touch, kindly nuzzling the hands of children.

In the ring, Buttercup remained calm. Her poise was remarkable. She quickly developed a rapport with the judge and played him like a fiddle. My brother showed Buttercup, but, really, she showed herself. She had complete knowledge of what was expected of her, and she delivered, posing to best advantage, striding like a fashion model on the runway, winking seductively at the judge. When my brother was handed yet another championship ribbon, Buttercup smiled, as if to say, “But of course!”

I was only a youngster. I wore a purple cap made to resemble Scrooge McDuck, Donald Duck’s uncle. The bill was orange plastic and quacked when squeezed. I spent warm afternoons at the fair sitting in the windowsill next to Buttercup and talking with kids my age who were petting the beloved cow. I was proud of my duck-billed hat, but I was even prouder of Buttercup, whose celebrity status made me feel out of the ordinary.

 

Buttercup, One of Her Calves, and My Father

Buttercup visited the fair for as many years as she was qualified, and she lived for many more years on our farm. She gave birth to calves. We kept hoping she would have a calf just like her, but fate and genetics did not oblige.

She was pampered; of that fact there can be no doubt. Even so, she did not allow herself to become spoiled.

When the pain of old age came to her, we asked the vet to do all in his power to keep Buttercup comfortable, and, when she died, we dug a deep hole and buried her on the farm: a tribute extended to only one cow.

Over thirty years later, I was invited to perform my play on Edgar A. Poe at Berea College. My host on campus was Neil Di Teresa, a brilliant artist. Neil happened to be working on a large canvas depicting a Holstein. The moment I saw the work, I exclaimed, “That’s just like Buttercup!”

“What did you say?” Neil asked.

“I said that your cow looks just like Buttercup,” I replied. The painting so perfectly captured the enchanting aura of Buttercup that I joyfully told Neil the story of my family’s favorite cow.

“I’ve been trying to think of a title for my painting,” Neil said, “and you just gave it to me.”

Then and there, the work was named Just Like Buttercup. I was delighted she had become memorialized in art. I could almost hear her moo, “But of course!”