Cow step on your foot and not get off? Noooo, but---
Again, back in the1970's, when we were young and had children to feed, we bought a sweet little week old heifer calf, half herford, half holstien, to hand raise for a milk cow. Paid the unheard of sum of $200.00 for her at the local auction barn. Of course we called her Two Hundred, and she grew up into a beautiful heifer and in due time had a nice bull calf. We gave her calf to another cow to raise and I started milking her twice a day with no problem; she was a dream to milk, gave enough for our house, my mother in law, and plenty left over for the dogs, cats and a dozen or so little feeder pigs that we raised to market size. All went well until one day about three months after calving. By this time I could just turn her out after milking and she would wander out into the pasture with the rest of the cows and laze away the day, then come wandering back into the yard around six in the evening to be milked again. This day she didn't come in until almost eight, wouldn't go into the barn, and when I did finally get her in she acted like a real jerk. Wouldn't go up in her stall, danced around until I finally had to tie her up, something that I didn't normally do. She generally just stepped up, put her muzzle in the manger and ate her oats like a lady and stood like a rock until I was done.
I brushed her off like always and sat on my pail and started milking, got about half a pail full when WHAP!! up came the back foot, smack into the pail , and winged it out of the stall behind her and into the alley. Then the same foot caught me and whipped me out into the alley with the pail so fast I didn't even see it coming. I got myself up, found the pail and went back in the stall beside her, --- and found myself back out in the alley again, this time with both the milk pail and the one I had been sitting on with me. By now I was getting fed up with the routine so I grabbed the barn broom and gave her a right smart lick with it and read her the riot act in no uncertain terms.
This time I gave her another bite of oats, groomed her a bit with the brush, something she normally enjoyed, and sat down again to milk. I guess the first two kicks were just getting the range, because the last kick caught me on the fore swing and threw me under her front feet where she proceeded to stamp and paw me back under her belly where she could really do some damage with her back feet. I somehow managed to roll under the bottom rail on the side of the stall and got away from her while she was busy destroying the pails. I sat and bled a while before finally getting up, and limped away to the house. Never did find my glasses again, and by bedtime I was black and blue from head to toe.
Two Hundred stayed tied up for the rest of that week. Milking was done after I tied her off hind leg three feet up the side of the stall. She fell over the first time or two but she liked that less than she did having me milk her, so she learned to stand and tolerate it. When sale day came around we bought a calf and introduced her to it, and be darned if she didn't take to it right away. In three days she was mothering it as if it was her own. The fourth day she hit the end of the halter rope and tore the top plank off the manger when we went in to feed her, and hit the open door running. The calf followed her out of the barn and that was that. I have no idea what broke in her little mind that first day, but we never could lay hands on her again.
When we shipped calves that fall Two Hundred, still wearing her halter, was loaded on the truck along with the calf crop. My bruises had faded to memory, new glasses were purchased, and I made my last visit to the chiropractor the week after the cow cheque was cashed.