Girl POWER

DISCLAIMER: This story is surely about girl power. Overcoming what appears too difficult to attempt. Women kicking ass and getting it done. But...it is also about delivering a dead calf. It's gruesome, gory and not for everyone. But it's part of being a Redneck's wife. For those of you who choose to read, enjoy. For those of you who skip this post, I don't blame you. I wish I could get the images out of my mind.

Our cows deliver one calf each year with no problem. We have the occasional calf die, but that's nature. Yesterday I came home to find a cow trying to deliver her first calf. I decided to record it. That's one tape I'll be rewinding and recording over.
She pushed for about 45 minutes, and I decided to call Jasen over. Much more than an hour of labor will kill a calf. The hooves were barely visible, and the cow wouldn't lay down in one spot for more than a few contractions. We decided to lead her into the pen, and try to help.
Helping a cow deliver is not easy. It's slippery, and hot, and sometimes needs a come-a-long. Jasen put his hands inside of her, grabbed onto the hooves, and pulled. Nothing. Except that he seriously pissed off the cow. She bolted, kicked sideways and thrust her lowered head at Jasen. Not good. We tried that route a few more times, and decided to let nature take its course. It was after hours for the vet. And like I said, we've never had problems with deliveries. I figured we'd go back out, and everything would be over.
Two hours later, at 9 p.m., Juni was snoring in his bed, and Jasen and I were again at the barn. I'm in my nightshirt and Birks, Jasen in his underwear and coveralls. With a flashlight. And lots of bugs. My job was to shine the light at the cow's whoowhoo, while Jasen tried to put the rope around the hooves and pull. Nothing doing. Except that we both needed showers afterward. At 11 p.m. we decided to again let nature take its course. The cow was soaked with sweat, breathing rhythmically, and pissed. But she was eating and drinking. We knew the calf was dead. It had been too long. But cows aren't like humans...it takes weeks for infection to set in. I'd  hoped she'd pass it during the night.
This morning we checked at 6 a.m. The cow was in the same standing position, and  in the same ornery mood as the night before. Jasen went to work and I called the vet.
I didn't know what to expect, other than a fight with this cow. The vet arrived at 10 a.m., and got out of the truck. First of all, it was a she. About 5'8 and maybe 130 lbs. And absolutely beautiful. She had an assistant. Also a woman, and shorter than me.
So I'm thinking this is a lost cause. We don't have a shoot for the cow's head. We have three women in 95 degree heat. And a very uncomfortable, aggressive, 900 lb cow. I'm not seeing good times ahead. I'm seeing cuts, and bruises, and heat stroke.
But within 5 minutes, the vet had roped the cow, tied her to the fence, and had an extra gate shoving her into the corner. Unbelievable. And just the beginning. She slipped her arm, up to her pit, inside and said "Holy shit. Holy shit! The calf is absolutely huge! I mean, seriously gigantic."
There was no way the calf would have been delivered without a C-section. And at this point, there was no way the calf was coming out whole.
At first I started to cry at the thought of butchering a calf before its birth. But then I remembered...it was already dead. And this was the least invasive way to save the cow.
The vet and her assistant began by threading a wire inside, wrapping it around the neck, and working the wire back and forth. The vet kept her arm inside, holding the body in place. She used every ounce of her weight to keep the cow stationary.
Twenty minutes later the vet put both arms inside, dug her boots into the concrete, and pulled. With every muscle of her body. The cow squirmed, but didn't make a sound. And then it came.
A head. The whole head. And nothing but a head.
I didn't realize they were severing the neck. I also didn't realize that was just the beginning.
The vet said by the look of the body, the calf died before labor began.
The cow relaxed after the pressure of the head was removed. She relaxed, and peed. Gallons. The urine came gushing out in spurts. As did the poop. And amniotic fluid. On the vet. She took a sip of water and kept working.
She took out each front leg. The lungs and heart. The sternum. Each half of the ribcage. Each hind leg. And the placenta. Piece by piece, goo by goo, hour by hour. At 1 p.m., three hours after we began, the calf was out, the buzzards were circling, and the vet was covered, head to toe, with innards and sweat.
The hair on her arms was matted with feces. She had placenta dripping from her clothes and hands. Her boots were soaked through with urine, fluid and diarrhea. Sweat dripped from her nose. And her hair was perfect, tousled on top of her head.
Through the entire ordeal, I was half horrified by what we were doing. And half amazed at the power these women held. Their muscles bulged. They didn't give up. They said they can do anything that they put their mind to. They used leverage instead of the strength only men have. And they smiled the entire time. Pure determination.
From what we can tell, the calf weighed a good 100 lbs. The average size of our calves is 50 lbs. The vet said it was the largest calf from a grass-fed cow she'd ever seen. And it's sitting in a pond of its fluid, waiting for Jasen to bury it. I'm too tired, too drenched with sweat, and too emotional.
It didn't bother me, taking out the calf. It's how the cow acted afterward. She wouldn't leave. She sniffed the pieces in confusion. A blur of instinct, and no baby to nurse.
The vet finally had to take a board to her head. Repeatedly. And finally, she slowly walked away, across the barnyard, and into the pasture. She didn't understand. She's grazing now, like nothing every happened. She's pumped full of antibiotics to deter infection, and medication to stimulate contractions to flush her system.
The vet's clothes were soaked through to her skin. She showered with the hose in our barn, scrubbing her arms with a wire-bristled brush. And drove off to her next appointment. It still amazes me that I was her first stop of the day.
Tomorrow, I'm putting the bull, Big John, up for sale. I can't have him breed this cow any time soon. And when she comes into season, he will literally run through the fences and hot wire to get to her. And I can't send her to the hamburger mill. I'm going to start over with the bull calf in the field. I'm going to do this right. Ethically.
C-sections, from what the vet said, are common in cows now. The bigger the calf, the bigger the profit. That's not for me. I want healthy, happy cows in my field.
I know this was a freak accident. Odds are it will never happen again. And I'm incredibly thankful for that. There's no way I could go through this day again. It's going to be a long time before I can walk by the pen and not see visions of what happened. Smell the stench of gasses, fluids and death. Hear belches, slurps and gushes. Feel the heat and disgust.
But with each word that I type, I feel a little better. A little more cleansed. A little more energized to raise these cows the natural, caring way. Despite the hardships, I enjoy the cows. And I enjoy the physical work I didn't think I was able to do. And I enjoy knowing that my cows are happy while they're here.
Being a Redneck's Wife is difficult. It's work, in every sense of the word. And sometimes, it's downright nasty.

The High School Nightmare

Everyone has their recurring high school nightmare. I'm relatively lucky in mine...I'm fully clothed. Unfortunately, I've returned to high school after receiving notice that my diploma, and those that followed, don't mean jack unless I take a few more courses. A glitch in the system wiped out part of my school records, and my diploma is now rendered null and void. Lovely.
My friends in high school were amazing. They were brilliant. And beautiful. And successful. I keep in touch with some, and everyone is blooming. I feel lucky to have had them. They helped pull me out of my shell.
Last night was different than my normal high school nightmare. I didn't just return as an older student with the same personality I had as a teenager. I returned with my adult views and voice. It. Was. Awesome.
I told myself to suck it up and take my Ritalin. That I wasn't an idiot. Just attention-deprived.
I told myself to look up when I walked. That it was okay. That I could wear shorts, because my legs will never look better.
I told everyone that I wasn't a bitch because of the car I drove, or the house I lived in. That I was shy. And scared. And crying inside.
I told the uber-knot in my tummy to take a hike.
I told my senior boyfriend that I was not an idiot. That I was smart enough to study with him. That money would not make him happy. That he was the most self-righteous, pretentious person I'd ever met. And that cheating on someone because you don't know yourself is not okay. Lying is not okay. Breaking people down is not okay. And running up your girlfriend's credit card for her parents to pay off is not okay.
I told myself to not be embarrassed by not saying the right thing in every social situation.
I told myself to breath.
I also cried and yelled at the top of my voice the whole time. But no one listened. No one noticed. A true nightmare.
The only positive to last night's dream was that I woke up with a smile on my face. Waiting in the parking lot for me was not my teal mustang...it was a maroon Porche. The perfect ending to a perfect dream.

Passing of the Cow's Guard

Jasen's grandfather Buddy has raised cows on our land since he bought it in the 1960s. He's now 86, and watching him operate the tractor is like waiting for a train wreck. Jasen rigged the tractor so it won't start. I grew tired of constantly looking out the window, waiting to see the tractor running across the field, Buddy laying in a ditch.
Buddy still comes out daily to feed the hungry beasts, but apparently forgot the other day. I know this because we arrived home to find every single cow standing in our back yard, tromping their tons of weight into the saturated ground, splattering pies as they ate and leaving behind ankle-breaking holes.
It's important to note here that I love the cows. They relax me. But I'll get to that in a moment. Jasen, on the other hand, despises them. The fences, the feeding, the babies. And most of all, the escapes.
This time, they might as well have eaten cash out of his money clip. they devoured an entire bale of hydromulch, and a bag of rye seed after bursting through the barbed-wire fence protecting Jasen's new barn addition. Pissed does not begin to describe my husband.
Sadie rounded up the cows and had them waiting at the red gate within minutes. But the damage was done. I was donned the new caretaker of the cows. And I've got to say, I don't mind.
As long as I have a decent pitch fork and tractor, the cows relax me. Here's why:
1. Feeding them in the winter is like meditation. They don't chew...they grind their food. Which sounds like water lapping upon a bulkhead. I lay on top of a roll and just listen. And then they begin to digest. Burps from stomachs one and two aren't so bad. But when they reach three and four, it gets a little hairy. And by hairy, I mean smelly. Then they begin to pee and poop. On each other. While they eat. Time for me to jet at that point.
2. The hay smells wonderful. Fresh and comforting. And when we serve peanut hay, the raw peanuts are an awesome snack.
3. A cow looks like a deer. Especially the young ones. They're sweet, and kind, and stupid beyond belief. The bull has eyes that bulge from his eye sockets. That freaks me out a bit, but Big John isn't so bad. He also isn't full grown just yet, so we'll see if I feel the same about him in a few years. The calves hide behind their mothers, or nurse while they eat. I love how they wag their tails like a windmill and lift their heads, milk drooling from the sides of their mouths, froth dripping from their noses.
4. Cows pick their noses. With their tongues. Gross, but cool. And cute when it's a calf.
5. Cows give birth silently. It amazes me. I've seen one birth from start to finish. Daisy's first calf. I saw her contracting in the field (arching her back away from the herd) and she followed me into the pen we had at the barn. I spread out straw, and she paced. With two little black hooves sticking out and kicking. Insane. Then she laid down, humphed with each push, and 25 minutes later had her little calf, which I named HotRod. She was exhausted and clueless, so I freed him from the sack, cleaned his nose, helped him up and watched him try to nurse. Unfortunately, she didn't have enough milk. So I bottle fed that calf for three months. One half-gallon every three hours until her mild came in. Insane! Her milk is wonderful now. She has a healthy bull calf in the field, and he's huge for his age. He can't stay, because cows are just so stupid they'll breed their mothers. I'm not a fan of line breeding. But he's adorable while he's here. And feisty as hell.
6. It's carrying on Buddy's tradition. I love Buddy. And he loves the cows. He'll stand at the pasture, watching them eat. So do I. After dinner, I go outside, and they slowly wander to the fence, sniffing and bowing their heads, trying to figure out just what I'm doing.
And honestly, what I'm doing is paying tribute. They're wonderful animals. And they deserve respect. They feed us. And my son realizes that. It's important to understand where the grocery store comes from. The earth and the animals. We personally don't eat our cows...they have names. And I don't eat things that I name. But they will eventually be on some one's plate. Until then, they're my pets. They're spoiled. And they're food for my soul.

Cow Poop Soup

Yep. Jasen and Juni make cow poop soup this year. It's brewing and drawing flies in and giant blue bucket in the garden. I thought they were nuts.
Apparently, they're not. They're organic! This year, I bought three Guinea hens to eat the bugs out of the garden. No Sevin Dust for us. It's always freaked me out anyway.
And I used to cal Jasen a cheap-ass when it came to taking care of the cows. He wouldn't buy them grain. He bought cheap hay that wasn't fertilized. We didn't fertilize or spray our fields, or spray the cows for flies.
Well, come to find out, my Redneck Husband is on the cutting edge. Grain-feed beef apparently is all the rage. Who knew?
Even cow poop soup is in style. Too bad it smells exactly as it sounds.