From first-calf heifers to zipper cows, The Rancher has never been short on comparisons between his cattle and his wife. Some of them have gone over better than others.

It’s that time of year when we get a little extra up close and personal with our cows. We always like to know what’s going on with the herd, but fall preg-checking gives us a hands-on, inside look at how next year’s calf crop is shaping up. Along the way, there are usually a few comments about the birds and the bees—or, more accurately, the bulls and the cows—accompanied by a wink and a chuckle.

Far too often, those jokes somehow turn into comparisons between cows and women, which is dangerous territory. Calling any woman a cow is grounds for a little encouragement from the hot shot.

Thankfully, it’s been a while since we’ve had a new baby of our own, so I’m not the target of the preg-checking jokes nearly as often as I used to be. But there was a time when this little ranch wife endured her fair share of cow comparisons.

Even before our days on the ranch, The Rancher enjoyed pointing out, with a little too much enthusiasm, how I was just like a cow.

When we were expecting our oldest son, he was taking an advanced reproduction class in animal science. They studied all the ins and outs of reproduction, pregnancy, and birth, and apparently, I was his own personal hands-on lab, complete with a growing baby.

I very generously told him he could make all the comparisons and jokes he wanted leading up to delivery day, but once we were in the hospital, it would be a hard NO.

He nearly missed his final exam that semester when we discovered my water had broken. Fortunately, we convinced the doctor that we could wait just long enough to finish our tests before it was baby time.

We learned afterward that missing an advanced reproduction final because of childbirth would have earned him an automatic pass. Apparently, the professors figured that anyone attending the birth of his own child had demonstrated a pretty good understanding of reproduction.

When we finally made it to the hospital, things didn’t go quite as planned. Labor was slow to progress, and The Rancher, apparently forgetting our agreement, commented that if I were a first-calf heifer taking this long to calve, he’d have grabbed the chains and pulled the calf already.

That was bad enough.

Then the doctor decided it was time for a C-section. Looking at my husband, he asked, “You’ve done this before, right?”

“Well… on cows,” The Rancher answered.

Without missing a beat, the doctor replied, “It’s all about the same!”

Even the doctor was in on the cow-comparing business.

With a C-section now part of my own “calving” history, The Rancher was quick to label me a “zipper cow.” That’s what we call cows with a scar along their side, as though someone unzipped them to get the calf out another way.

Then he helpfully informed me that zipper cows get culled.

As you can imagine, that particular comparison didn’t go over especially well.

The comments didn’t stop with childbirth, either.

Over the years, whenever I’ve wished my mom-bod looked a little more like it did before the babies wreaked havoc on it, The Rancher has offered the comforting observation that a cow never looks like a heifer again.

I’m sure he meant well.

As the kids grew, he occasionally pointed out how petite they were and suggested they must have a pretty low average daily gain. Once again, if I were raising calves instead of children, I might be facing some difficult culling decisions. Thankfully, the pediatrician has always been pleased with the lean little kids in my pasture, so I haven’t worried too much about it.

Every once in a while, though, I think being a momma cow might not be such a bad deal.

Can you imagine spending your days eating, sleeping, and wandering around the pasture? I’d even put up with a few ribs showing and a tight bag after calving. And with the bulls only turned out for a few months of the year, there might be some definite advantages.

Having a baby every single year, on the other hand, would be considerably less appealing.

Fortunately, I’m not always the only one on the receiving end of the cattle jokes. When the opportunity arises, somebody is usually happy to compare The Rancher to a herd bull. Although, somehow, even those jokes tend to circle back around to me.

It’s one of the hazards of being married to a rancher. Whether we’re turning out bulls, testing them, or preg-checking cows, the comparisons are never very far away. And when I choose to laugh along, most of them really are pretty funny.

Still, after all these years, you’d think The Rancher would have learned one important lesson.

You can compare your wife to a cow all you want, but you’d better be prepared for the possibility of getting hit with the hot shot.