The Christmas the Cows Got Out

Growing up right across the street from the farm meant that Christmas morning never quite looked like the ones in the movies. While some kids wake up to the smell of cinnamon rolls and the sound of parents urging them to wait just a little longer before opening presents, we woke up to something different: the quiet understanding that my dad had barn chores to finish before the present opening could commence.

Every Christmas, without fail, he was in the barn early, milking cows and managing whatever unexpected challenge had popped up overnight. And every Christmas, without fail, some kind of “issue” delayed him—an equipment hiccup, a stubborn cow, or a surprise snowstorm that slowed everything down. My siblings and I would sit in the kitchen eating meat pie and enjoying time with our mom, while also watching for my dad to finally cross the road back home.

But one Christmas stands out from all the others.

That year, my dad had finally returned after a long morning. We were gathered in the living room, ready to tear into our presents, when the phone rang. I remember the way time seemed to freeze—because no one calls on Christmas morning unless something is wrong.

Someone answered, questions were asked and then the phone was hung up. The call had come from our neighbor across the street letting us know the cows were out.

Not just one.

Not a handful.

All of them.

Within seconds, the whole family was in motion. Boots went on. Coats were grabbed. Wrapping paper and presents were forgotten as we charged out the door and ran across the street to the farm.

Thankfully, it wasn’t bitterly cold that morning, which made the scene almost surreal—cows wandering around the farmyard, calmly exploring like they were out for a holiday stroll. They bunched together near the feed area, milled around the driveway, and stood in places they absolutely did not belong. It was as if they, too, had decided to mix things up for Christmas.

What could have been an overwhelming moment turned instead into one of teamwork and laughter. My siblings and I fanned out, shooing cows back toward the barn, while my dad and mom handled gates and headcounts. A few of the cows had decided to go swimming in the manure holding pit, which meant someone had to climb into the loader bucket, be semi driven into pit, lasso the cows and slowly pull them out. The whole morning became a blur of mooing, shouting, laughing, and trying not to fall in the manure pit.

And somewhere in the chaos, something became clear:

This was our version of Christmas.

It wasn’t picture-perfect or scheduled or quiet. It wasn’t the kind of Christmas morning other families had. But it was ours—messy, unexpected, and rooted entirely in family and responsibility. We showed up for each other, and for the animals that depended on us. That is the backbone of any family business, and it shaped who we were far more than any carefully wrapped gift under the tree.

By the time the cows were all safely back inside and accounted for, our cheeks were red from smiling and the sun was a little higher in the sky. We trudged back home, boots covered in who-knows-what, laughing about the absurdity of it all. Only then did we finally open our presents—but by that point, it almost didn’t matter. We already had the story we’d still be telling decades later.

Looking back now, that Christmas morning—chaotic, cold, and cow-filled—is one of my favorite childhood memories. It reminded us that family doesn’t just show up for the easy moments. We show up for the emergencies, the interruptions, and all the unpredictable things that come with life on a farm.

It wasn’t the Christmas I had imagined.

But it was a Christmas that shaped me.

And it will forever be one of the sweetest stories in the long, unpredictable, wonderful tradition of growing up at Wright’s Dairy Farm.

By Cate Kennedy, 5th Generation Family Member