As Sarah and I walked along the fence line, a curious mob of onlookers pursued. She was home from New York City for a stint, so we ambled, catching up. It was nice to spend this kind of time with my sister - no need to rush anywhere, nothing pressing, no stress. For me, it was nice to see her back on the farm, if only for a short time. She has a calming, positive influence on the animals, and besides - some extra company is always nice.
For her, being on the farm is an equally calm and soothing experience. Imagine living on an island with some 8 million people. The simple task of walking three blocks can involve navigating your way through throngs of bodies, crossing busy streets, and dealing with construction or scammers. Exhausting, right? I am always pleasantly surprised to hear her comment on how relaxing a visit to the farm can be. In many ways, it is total peace and tranquility.
With all of this in mind, and given the relaxed nature of our stroll, imagine my surprise when Sarah jumped and reared around, a look of near panic on her face. She pointed, "Oh my God - what, what is THAT?!"
Sarah pointed to the crowd of onlookers, which had curiously tagged along during this whole time. I didn't think anything was unusual; this group of dairy heifers is particularly friendly. Typically, a few of the cattle will actually step forward to demand attention, and will pursue until their face, ears, or neck is sufficiently scratched. As Sarah pointed to the mob, a face appeared. When I saw who it was I laughed out loud, "Oh, that's just Frankie. Don't worry - she won't bite."
At this time, and before I delve any further into explaining Frankie, I need to give a shout to the veterinarians at the Monroe Vet Clinic. I have spent countless opportunities explaining animal oddities on the farm, and the truly touching experiences that come of them. In every case, and along with countless others, a Monroe veterinarian has been there to administer treatment and advice. They are the unsung heroes of agriculture, showing up at any time (including holidays and at all hours of the night) to diagnose and treat every conceivable animal ailment. Now, more than three years into my own dairy operation, it is high time I mention these veterinarians, who actually do perform miracles.
So then, who is Frankie? To answer this question, put yourself into the shoes of my dad who, along with the Monroe Veterinarians, surely saved her life. Early one morning, Dad walked past a calf pen and noticed something odd. A small heifer had somehow wedged her head into a door jamb and was trapped. Shockingly, it appeared as though she had been there all night.
Now, it is worth mentioning that this is in no way a normal occurrence. This particular calf had somehow forced her head into a space only four inches wide. This had never happened before or since, and I am not even sure how she did it in the first place. Dad had to remove the gate from its hinges to set her free, but the damage had already been done.
Almost instantly a veterinarian was on the scene. This poor calf, with her unnatural constriction fetish, had crushed the nerves along her jawline. Having been trapped overnight, the pressure actually deformed some of the bones in her skull. She was dazed, traumatized, and with obvious severe injuries. We moved her to a secluded pen with no tight spaces and administered treatment. The veterinarian gave her antibiotics to prevent infection, and something to dull the pain. Not too much - if her face goes totally numb, she may chew off her own tongue, certainly not a pleasant thought.
Most importantly, and thanks to the quick thinking of those involved, the heifer calf was alive. She had no feeling in her mouth, and for more than a week afterward we fed her grain and milk by hand. To do this, we gently poured liquid into her mouth, since she could not suckle. She was given grain by the small handful and allowed to chew it, since she could not lick it from a pail.
Perhaps it was the special care, or the knowledge that she could have died as a result of her innocent curiosity, but as the heifer grew older, she became a close friend. Eventually she healed enough to slurp water on her own, and bite mouthfuls of grain from a pile. She was moved back into a pen with other calves and took off on her own.
But, the scars remained. As she began to mature, her ears and head grew at weird angles. One ear sticks straight out from her head, while the other juts at an unnatural angle from a marked depression in her skull. Her brows gnarled over, sending her eyes to the sides of her head and causing her to lose all perception of depth. Even her nose has hooked downward and slightly to the side. All said; she has grown up to have an endearing, albeit infuriated look on her face.
My wife has to be attributed for naming the calf. One day, while working in her garden, Ashley noticed a peculiar heifer gazing crookedly across the fence at her. Ashley laughed, "She looks like a monster, but she's cute - I think I'll call her Frankie."
The name stuck, and Frankie has become one of those odd, but incredibly pleasant facets of the farm. In fact, she is due to have her first calf in June. Should you ever find yourself amongst a mob of curious onlookers on my farm, be sure to give the friendly ones a scratch behind the ears.
And don't worry about Frankie - she won't bite.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
For her, being on the farm is an equally calm and soothing experience. Imagine living on an island with some 8 million people. The simple task of walking three blocks can involve navigating your way through throngs of bodies, crossing busy streets, and dealing with construction or scammers. Exhausting, right? I am always pleasantly surprised to hear her comment on how relaxing a visit to the farm can be. In many ways, it is total peace and tranquility.
With all of this in mind, and given the relaxed nature of our stroll, imagine my surprise when Sarah jumped and reared around, a look of near panic on her face. She pointed, "Oh my God - what, what is THAT?!"
Sarah pointed to the crowd of onlookers, which had curiously tagged along during this whole time. I didn't think anything was unusual; this group of dairy heifers is particularly friendly. Typically, a few of the cattle will actually step forward to demand attention, and will pursue until their face, ears, or neck is sufficiently scratched. As Sarah pointed to the mob, a face appeared. When I saw who it was I laughed out loud, "Oh, that's just Frankie. Don't worry - she won't bite."
At this time, and before I delve any further into explaining Frankie, I need to give a shout to the veterinarians at the Monroe Vet Clinic. I have spent countless opportunities explaining animal oddities on the farm, and the truly touching experiences that come of them. In every case, and along with countless others, a Monroe veterinarian has been there to administer treatment and advice. They are the unsung heroes of agriculture, showing up at any time (including holidays and at all hours of the night) to diagnose and treat every conceivable animal ailment. Now, more than three years into my own dairy operation, it is high time I mention these veterinarians, who actually do perform miracles.
So then, who is Frankie? To answer this question, put yourself into the shoes of my dad who, along with the Monroe Veterinarians, surely saved her life. Early one morning, Dad walked past a calf pen and noticed something odd. A small heifer had somehow wedged her head into a door jamb and was trapped. Shockingly, it appeared as though she had been there all night.
Now, it is worth mentioning that this is in no way a normal occurrence. This particular calf had somehow forced her head into a space only four inches wide. This had never happened before or since, and I am not even sure how she did it in the first place. Dad had to remove the gate from its hinges to set her free, but the damage had already been done.
Almost instantly a veterinarian was on the scene. This poor calf, with her unnatural constriction fetish, had crushed the nerves along her jawline. Having been trapped overnight, the pressure actually deformed some of the bones in her skull. She was dazed, traumatized, and with obvious severe injuries. We moved her to a secluded pen with no tight spaces and administered treatment. The veterinarian gave her antibiotics to prevent infection, and something to dull the pain. Not too much - if her face goes totally numb, she may chew off her own tongue, certainly not a pleasant thought.
Most importantly, and thanks to the quick thinking of those involved, the heifer calf was alive. She had no feeling in her mouth, and for more than a week afterward we fed her grain and milk by hand. To do this, we gently poured liquid into her mouth, since she could not suckle. She was given grain by the small handful and allowed to chew it, since she could not lick it from a pail.
Perhaps it was the special care, or the knowledge that she could have died as a result of her innocent curiosity, but as the heifer grew older, she became a close friend. Eventually she healed enough to slurp water on her own, and bite mouthfuls of grain from a pile. She was moved back into a pen with other calves and took off on her own.
But, the scars remained. As she began to mature, her ears and head grew at weird angles. One ear sticks straight out from her head, while the other juts at an unnatural angle from a marked depression in her skull. Her brows gnarled over, sending her eyes to the sides of her head and causing her to lose all perception of depth. Even her nose has hooked downward and slightly to the side. All said; she has grown up to have an endearing, albeit infuriated look on her face.
My wife has to be attributed for naming the calf. One day, while working in her garden, Ashley noticed a peculiar heifer gazing crookedly across the fence at her. Ashley laughed, "She looks like a monster, but she's cute - I think I'll call her Frankie."
The name stuck, and Frankie has become one of those odd, but incredibly pleasant facets of the farm. In fact, she is due to have her first calf in June. Should you ever find yourself amongst a mob of curious onlookers on my farm, be sure to give the friendly ones a scratch behind the ears.
And don't worry about Frankie - she won't bite.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
