There - that cow. That's the one. I pointed to her, singling her out in my mind. For the past day or so I had been eyeing her. There was something about her mannerism and the way she carried herself that was not quite right.
The one challenge with cows is that they will not tell you when something is wrong. They do not voice their discomfort, advertise their pain, or promote their grief. Rather, their discomfort is represented subtly.
Take this girl as an example. In the daily ceaseless movements that define a dairy herd, she stuck out. Cows in a group push each other, shove each other, hooves scrape concrete and dig at the earth. In a corner someone is rubbing vigorously against a post, itching an unreachable spot on her neck. A few are lined side-by-side at the feed bunk, rooting through the piles of forage. A cow might approach another cow and begin to lick along her backline. There are always a few simply lying down, their heads up and eyes half-mast, chewing cud and soaking up the spring sunshine. Inevitably, one or two are stretching themselves (as a human might having just arisen from bed), and unceremoniously defecating upon whatever unfortunate object has found itself rearward.
At any given time, this is what a herd of cows look like. How then, does one detect trauma in such a placid scene? Certainly it is there; I saw it in her mannerisms. Subtle, almost nonexistent as they were, to the alert eye she was practically screaming, begging for help.
She stood slightly back from the group, taking her time to approach the bunk for feed. There was a depression along her backline. Just forward of her hips, her spine dipped down. Her great hipbones were crooked, carried purposefully off balance as though one leg was longer than the other. This cow was standing in precisely the same manner as a ghastly malnourished Victoria Secret model. She was standing as though horrid posture was going out of style.
I watched her take a step forward and there again - she was faintly favoring her left-rear hoof. The poor girl had a sore foot. This I knew without question; the signs as obvious and lucid as if she had just come up to me and said so.
"Well, you are definitely not a horse." I always said that whenever I had to pick up a cow's hoof. I whistled to myself as I stantioned the cow and gathered my hoof-care supplies. I thought, as always, of my 17 year-old mare. Picking up a horse's hooves is a cinch. Literally, I call out, "Hoof" and the old girl picks up her foot. I hold it delicately, scraping the underside as one might the scraps from a serving platter. She nimbly sets it down and preemptively holds the next foot aloft for me to clean. I do so, knowing as always the great power represented by these hooves, the strength in the muscles I hold in my hand as delicately as fine china. The horse watches me work, her eye shiny, bright, and aware of what I am doing, and the necessity for it all.
Bless her heart; the cow is not a horse. She will never pick up her foot for me. In fact, the more I try to lift, the more weight she puts on. She will stand on one leg, so long as it is the leg I am attempting to lift. Out of habit I toss a rope over the barn beam. I grab the snap, securing it around her ankle. One loose loop around her thigh, and I am ready. I gently pull back. I have done this so many times I do not even need to think about it. As I pull, the rope ratchets her foot into the air. She can put as much weight as she wants on that leg; the rope will support it.
Now the hoof in question is at waist-level - high enough for me to work, yet not so high as to strain her muscle. I tie off the rope and get to work. Using a hoof knife I scrape her foot clean. She eyes me, not quite sure of what to make of all this, but hesitatingly accepting of the knowledge that what I am doing is for her benefit.
I can smell it before I see it. Sure enough, there is a topical infection on her heel, just where the two hooves meet the skin. She has a bacterial infection known in lay terms as a Hairy Wart. It is treatable; a surface application of antibiotics will kill it. I am actually relieved - of all the hoof-related problems, hairy warts are the least problematic to prevent and treat.
I clean her foot, taking special care to avoid the infected area, which looks like a rug burn. Once I scrape too close and her leg muscles tense up. Clearly, this is what has caused her discomfort.
I make a simple wrap using a cotton pad soaked with oxytetracycline, a broad-spectrum antibiotic. I place the pad directly atop the infection and quickly bandage the foot with vet wrap. At this point, so close, I always imagine the cow kicking rearward, smashing my face. I have never been kicked by a cow while applying a bandage.
Work completed, I gather my supplies and turn her out. By afternoon she will already be putting more weight on that foot. Halfway through the doorway she stops, turns around, and looks at me.
I like to think it's her way of saying thank you.
-Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
The one challenge with cows is that they will not tell you when something is wrong. They do not voice their discomfort, advertise their pain, or promote their grief. Rather, their discomfort is represented subtly.
Take this girl as an example. In the daily ceaseless movements that define a dairy herd, she stuck out. Cows in a group push each other, shove each other, hooves scrape concrete and dig at the earth. In a corner someone is rubbing vigorously against a post, itching an unreachable spot on her neck. A few are lined side-by-side at the feed bunk, rooting through the piles of forage. A cow might approach another cow and begin to lick along her backline. There are always a few simply lying down, their heads up and eyes half-mast, chewing cud and soaking up the spring sunshine. Inevitably, one or two are stretching themselves (as a human might having just arisen from bed), and unceremoniously defecating upon whatever unfortunate object has found itself rearward.
At any given time, this is what a herd of cows look like. How then, does one detect trauma in such a placid scene? Certainly it is there; I saw it in her mannerisms. Subtle, almost nonexistent as they were, to the alert eye she was practically screaming, begging for help.
She stood slightly back from the group, taking her time to approach the bunk for feed. There was a depression along her backline. Just forward of her hips, her spine dipped down. Her great hipbones were crooked, carried purposefully off balance as though one leg was longer than the other. This cow was standing in precisely the same manner as a ghastly malnourished Victoria Secret model. She was standing as though horrid posture was going out of style.
I watched her take a step forward and there again - she was faintly favoring her left-rear hoof. The poor girl had a sore foot. This I knew without question; the signs as obvious and lucid as if she had just come up to me and said so.
"Well, you are definitely not a horse." I always said that whenever I had to pick up a cow's hoof. I whistled to myself as I stantioned the cow and gathered my hoof-care supplies. I thought, as always, of my 17 year-old mare. Picking up a horse's hooves is a cinch. Literally, I call out, "Hoof" and the old girl picks up her foot. I hold it delicately, scraping the underside as one might the scraps from a serving platter. She nimbly sets it down and preemptively holds the next foot aloft for me to clean. I do so, knowing as always the great power represented by these hooves, the strength in the muscles I hold in my hand as delicately as fine china. The horse watches me work, her eye shiny, bright, and aware of what I am doing, and the necessity for it all.
Bless her heart; the cow is not a horse. She will never pick up her foot for me. In fact, the more I try to lift, the more weight she puts on. She will stand on one leg, so long as it is the leg I am attempting to lift. Out of habit I toss a rope over the barn beam. I grab the snap, securing it around her ankle. One loose loop around her thigh, and I am ready. I gently pull back. I have done this so many times I do not even need to think about it. As I pull, the rope ratchets her foot into the air. She can put as much weight as she wants on that leg; the rope will support it.
Now the hoof in question is at waist-level - high enough for me to work, yet not so high as to strain her muscle. I tie off the rope and get to work. Using a hoof knife I scrape her foot clean. She eyes me, not quite sure of what to make of all this, but hesitatingly accepting of the knowledge that what I am doing is for her benefit.
I can smell it before I see it. Sure enough, there is a topical infection on her heel, just where the two hooves meet the skin. She has a bacterial infection known in lay terms as a Hairy Wart. It is treatable; a surface application of antibiotics will kill it. I am actually relieved - of all the hoof-related problems, hairy warts are the least problematic to prevent and treat.
I clean her foot, taking special care to avoid the infected area, which looks like a rug burn. Once I scrape too close and her leg muscles tense up. Clearly, this is what has caused her discomfort.
I make a simple wrap using a cotton pad soaked with oxytetracycline, a broad-spectrum antibiotic. I place the pad directly atop the infection and quickly bandage the foot with vet wrap. At this point, so close, I always imagine the cow kicking rearward, smashing my face. I have never been kicked by a cow while applying a bandage.
Work completed, I gather my supplies and turn her out. By afternoon she will already be putting more weight on that foot. Halfway through the doorway she stops, turns around, and looks at me.
I like to think it's her way of saying thank you.
-Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
