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.
No comments:
Post a Comment