At times, it becomes worthwhile to go back and revisit some of the things I have written about. Moods, perceptions, thoughts and feelings sometimes change with the passage of time, and as one grows older. Likewise, there are many things in life that remain constant and unwavering. In either case, it is useful to either establish anew a particular topic, or reiterate an existing theme.
Of all the subjects I visit from time to time, among my favorites to write about are my cows. They are such reliable, trusty creatures, with hardly a complaint in the world. With soft, gentle eyes and contented demeanor, they seem to require little more in life than food to eat, a dry bed, and someone to milk their udders. Cows are powerful and strong in their modesty, yet endless providers of so much that is good.
One need not work with cows on a daily basis as I do to appreciate their character. This summer, my aunt was visiting from the Washington, D.C. area, about as far from cattle as possible. As she drove down my road, she spotted my cows grazing complacently on the hillside. Down went her window, and according to her, "I stuck my head out and started mooing as loud as I could. They looked so beautiful - you know, everyone should have a personal relation with a cow."
How did the cows react? They no doubt stuck up their noses and returned to their grazing. Darn tourists.
Since I work with cows every day, I sometimes take for granted what unique animals they really are. Thus, I am surprised to occasionally hear from a reader, "How's that cow you wrote about a few months back? Is she getting along all right?" People who have nothing to do with farming seem to appreciate the girls, and their interesting personalities. I was shocked to get a Facebook message from a friend in Florida, "I read your last article about Frankie - I want to meet her."
So at this time, I'd like to go back and revisit some of the more notable bovines I have written about in the past. Since I do get asked occasionally about their welfare, it is worth pointing out that all of the cows I have singled out are healthy, productive, and as prominent in my daily routine as ever. After all, personalities such as these truly make life on a farm remarkable.
The cow I get asked about the most is, not surprisingly, Frankie. Those of you who have followed my articles remember her as the baby calf that haphazardly got her head stuck in a doorframe. Frankie came very close to not making it - only quick thinking on the part of a veterinarian and my dad got her free, and nursed back to health. So severe were her wounds that she was fed milk and grain by hand until her strength returned.
Frankie grew up, but the scars remain. Her head has literally grown oblong and bulbous, forever misshapen from the accident. One ear juts almost straight up, while the other droops dramatically from a depression in her head. Her eyes seem to work independently; one is bright and wide, while her gnarled brow perpetually narrows the other. Thus, one side of Frankie's face is turned up and happy, while the other is molded into a constant scowl.
But, Frankie has more than found her place in the herd. She has a favorite stanchion she goes to, the other cows do not bully her, and she is maturing into a fine milker. Frankie is easy to spot in the herd, and she'll even mosey over to investigate any onlookers. She likes to be scratched, right there around her ear-crater. Right where she can't reach.
Another cow I wrote about was a young heifer named Jecklyn. Last January, this poor girl slipped on the ice and hurt her shoulder. After months of pampering and dozens of sausage-sized aspirins, I am happy to report that Jecklyn is healed, and getting along very well. She does have a new name, however. During the healing process, she developed a signature stiff-legged gait; probably similar to the awkward nonathletic manner in which I play volleyball. As I watched her walk, I realized that only one moniker would suffice. The name 'Hobbit' stuck.
Early this spring, about the time the rest of the cows were let out to graze on fresh pastures, Hobbit was confined to a bedded maternity pen so that she could heal. Each day, when the rest of the cows were let out, Hobbit would walk over to her gate, look out, and beller. So lonely, so mournful did she sound, that one day I couldn't take it anymore. I opened Hobbit's gate and let her out.
Know what she did? She kicked up her heels and ran out to the pasture. Literally, she bounded down the lane. At first I was worried that she may trip, or get picked on. But she never did, and the other cows accepted her without drama. Now, Hobbit stays with the cows. She milks well, and is expecting her second calf early next spring.
Of course there are other, equally prominent personalities within my herd. Twice a day when I throw open the gate to begin milking, it feels like a roll call of familiar faces. No matter the mood I am in, there are certain cows that just make my day. Perhaps my aunt was right - everyone should have a personal relation with a cow.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Of all the subjects I visit from time to time, among my favorites to write about are my cows. They are such reliable, trusty creatures, with hardly a complaint in the world. With soft, gentle eyes and contented demeanor, they seem to require little more in life than food to eat, a dry bed, and someone to milk their udders. Cows are powerful and strong in their modesty, yet endless providers of so much that is good.
One need not work with cows on a daily basis as I do to appreciate their character. This summer, my aunt was visiting from the Washington, D.C. area, about as far from cattle as possible. As she drove down my road, she spotted my cows grazing complacently on the hillside. Down went her window, and according to her, "I stuck my head out and started mooing as loud as I could. They looked so beautiful - you know, everyone should have a personal relation with a cow."
How did the cows react? They no doubt stuck up their noses and returned to their grazing. Darn tourists.
Since I work with cows every day, I sometimes take for granted what unique animals they really are. Thus, I am surprised to occasionally hear from a reader, "How's that cow you wrote about a few months back? Is she getting along all right?" People who have nothing to do with farming seem to appreciate the girls, and their interesting personalities. I was shocked to get a Facebook message from a friend in Florida, "I read your last article about Frankie - I want to meet her."
So at this time, I'd like to go back and revisit some of the more notable bovines I have written about in the past. Since I do get asked occasionally about their welfare, it is worth pointing out that all of the cows I have singled out are healthy, productive, and as prominent in my daily routine as ever. After all, personalities such as these truly make life on a farm remarkable.
The cow I get asked about the most is, not surprisingly, Frankie. Those of you who have followed my articles remember her as the baby calf that haphazardly got her head stuck in a doorframe. Frankie came very close to not making it - only quick thinking on the part of a veterinarian and my dad got her free, and nursed back to health. So severe were her wounds that she was fed milk and grain by hand until her strength returned.
Frankie grew up, but the scars remain. Her head has literally grown oblong and bulbous, forever misshapen from the accident. One ear juts almost straight up, while the other droops dramatically from a depression in her head. Her eyes seem to work independently; one is bright and wide, while her gnarled brow perpetually narrows the other. Thus, one side of Frankie's face is turned up and happy, while the other is molded into a constant scowl.
But, Frankie has more than found her place in the herd. She has a favorite stanchion she goes to, the other cows do not bully her, and she is maturing into a fine milker. Frankie is easy to spot in the herd, and she'll even mosey over to investigate any onlookers. She likes to be scratched, right there around her ear-crater. Right where she can't reach.
Another cow I wrote about was a young heifer named Jecklyn. Last January, this poor girl slipped on the ice and hurt her shoulder. After months of pampering and dozens of sausage-sized aspirins, I am happy to report that Jecklyn is healed, and getting along very well. She does have a new name, however. During the healing process, she developed a signature stiff-legged gait; probably similar to the awkward nonathletic manner in which I play volleyball. As I watched her walk, I realized that only one moniker would suffice. The name 'Hobbit' stuck.
Early this spring, about the time the rest of the cows were let out to graze on fresh pastures, Hobbit was confined to a bedded maternity pen so that she could heal. Each day, when the rest of the cows were let out, Hobbit would walk over to her gate, look out, and beller. So lonely, so mournful did she sound, that one day I couldn't take it anymore. I opened Hobbit's gate and let her out.
Know what she did? She kicked up her heels and ran out to the pasture. Literally, she bounded down the lane. At first I was worried that she may trip, or get picked on. But she never did, and the other cows accepted her without drama. Now, Hobbit stays with the cows. She milks well, and is expecting her second calf early next spring.
Of course there are other, equally prominent personalities within my herd. Twice a day when I throw open the gate to begin milking, it feels like a roll call of familiar faces. No matter the mood I am in, there are certain cows that just make my day. Perhaps my aunt was right - everyone should have a personal relation with a cow.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
