Well, this is something that is going to have to be fixed.
I stood gazing at the hole in the fence, made possible by a tree limb that had obviously broken off in a recent storm. I had started this evening off on the wrong foot, and never recovered. I had been just a little late bringing the cows in from pasture, delayed in starting milking, and dawdled throughout. When I finally ran the last shift of cows into the barn, I was irked to realize that I was one animal short.
One of my dry cows had not come through the barn, which was not a particularly big deal. A dry cow is one who is late in her pregnancy, close to having a calf, and does not get milked. Dry cows comprehend this, and will oftentimes separate themselves from the rest of the herd when it is milking time. I finished milking and walked out to the barnyard to count heads. Still, I came up one animal short. Via process of elimination, she had to be out in the pasture. I had simply missed her when I brought everyone else in.
By now the sun was at the horizon. Dusk was fast approaching, adding an obvious sense of urgency to my predicament. No problem - I'd haul the newborn calf to the barn in the Gator, and then walk back out to retrieve the cow, just as I have done countless times before. Curiously, a cow will never follow the Gator, even if her calf is riding in the back. She will sniff the calf, lick it, take a few steps toward the machine, but then spin around and return to the spot where she gave birth. Thus, I can always expect to make two trips.
Wait - was I going crazy? I put the Gator in park and shut off the engine. I was in the pasture, but there was not a cow or calf in sight. What the hell? I double, triple-checked - still nothing.
Then I saw the downed limb, the crushed fence. No way - I walked toward the hole, aghast at this latest development: a cow, with her calf, on the loose at dusk. How on earth did she even discover this? The fence had long been overgrown with berry bushes and multiflora rose. On the other side of the fence was a wildlife area of prairie grass, timber, and with a creek running through. Needless to say nature had created its own fence, but sure enough - hoof prints in the soil were proof positive that she had gone through.
Again I wondered how she had even discovered this break? I was more amused than annoyed; I had to duck beneath a limb, step over the fence, and push branches aside in order to get through. I followed the hoof prints. Berry bushes and nettles clawed at my legs. I crouched and weaved my way through a series of saplings and into a clearing, where the prairie grass was almost shoulder-height.
I stepped on a branch, breaking it. The snap alerted the attention of the cow, whose head jerked up above the grass. Well, at least I knew where she was. I didn't even have to look to know that she had her calf. She had sought a quiet, secluded place to give birth, and had blundered her way out here.
It was now dusk. How on God's green Earth was I gong to coax her in? I have rarely had a cow follow me, or the Gator, even when carrying her calf, and certainly not through obstacles. They almost always wheel about and return to the spot where the baby was born.
At the very least, I'd bring in the calf. I cradled it in my arms, and scooped it up. The cow intently watched me, but stayed back. Facing the cow and holding her calf, I walked backward without saying a word. She took a few steps forward, alternately focusing her attention on me, and the now empty area of matted grass.
I took a few more steps back, toward the hole in the fence. The cow looked down, mooed softly, and then jerked her head up again. She very purposely stepped toward her calf. Still, I said nothing. Carrying the newborn, I retraced my steps, weaving my way through the saplings, crouching beneath the boughs, feeling the thorns tear my flesh and the sting of nettles. I brushed past a branch, which accidentally swung back and slapped the cow in the face. Still, she followed me.
I nearly tripped over the downed fence, but managed to step through the wires and into the pasture. The cow followed, exhibiting surprising agility. I carefully placed the calf in the back of the Gator. Any second now, I expected the cow to bolt and return to where she had her calf.
She didn't. I started the engine and slowly drove the half-mile uphill back to the barn. The cow followed the entire distance, never falling more than one step behind her baby. I drove into the barnyard, parked, and carefully carried the calf into the maternity pen. The mother was right on my heels, never stopping until I placed the calf atop a bed of fodder and backed away.
I would milk the cow and feed the calf in due course, but for the time being I simply stood back and watched. I just love it when everything goes right.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I stood gazing at the hole in the fence, made possible by a tree limb that had obviously broken off in a recent storm. I had started this evening off on the wrong foot, and never recovered. I had been just a little late bringing the cows in from pasture, delayed in starting milking, and dawdled throughout. When I finally ran the last shift of cows into the barn, I was irked to realize that I was one animal short.
One of my dry cows had not come through the barn, which was not a particularly big deal. A dry cow is one who is late in her pregnancy, close to having a calf, and does not get milked. Dry cows comprehend this, and will oftentimes separate themselves from the rest of the herd when it is milking time. I finished milking and walked out to the barnyard to count heads. Still, I came up one animal short. Via process of elimination, she had to be out in the pasture. I had simply missed her when I brought everyone else in.
By now the sun was at the horizon. Dusk was fast approaching, adding an obvious sense of urgency to my predicament. No problem - I'd haul the newborn calf to the barn in the Gator, and then walk back out to retrieve the cow, just as I have done countless times before. Curiously, a cow will never follow the Gator, even if her calf is riding in the back. She will sniff the calf, lick it, take a few steps toward the machine, but then spin around and return to the spot where she gave birth. Thus, I can always expect to make two trips.
Wait - was I going crazy? I put the Gator in park and shut off the engine. I was in the pasture, but there was not a cow or calf in sight. What the hell? I double, triple-checked - still nothing.
Then I saw the downed limb, the crushed fence. No way - I walked toward the hole, aghast at this latest development: a cow, with her calf, on the loose at dusk. How on earth did she even discover this? The fence had long been overgrown with berry bushes and multiflora rose. On the other side of the fence was a wildlife area of prairie grass, timber, and with a creek running through. Needless to say nature had created its own fence, but sure enough - hoof prints in the soil were proof positive that she had gone through.
Again I wondered how she had even discovered this break? I was more amused than annoyed; I had to duck beneath a limb, step over the fence, and push branches aside in order to get through. I followed the hoof prints. Berry bushes and nettles clawed at my legs. I crouched and weaved my way through a series of saplings and into a clearing, where the prairie grass was almost shoulder-height.
I stepped on a branch, breaking it. The snap alerted the attention of the cow, whose head jerked up above the grass. Well, at least I knew where she was. I didn't even have to look to know that she had her calf. She had sought a quiet, secluded place to give birth, and had blundered her way out here.
It was now dusk. How on God's green Earth was I gong to coax her in? I have rarely had a cow follow me, or the Gator, even when carrying her calf, and certainly not through obstacles. They almost always wheel about and return to the spot where the baby was born.
At the very least, I'd bring in the calf. I cradled it in my arms, and scooped it up. The cow intently watched me, but stayed back. Facing the cow and holding her calf, I walked backward without saying a word. She took a few steps forward, alternately focusing her attention on me, and the now empty area of matted grass.
I took a few more steps back, toward the hole in the fence. The cow looked down, mooed softly, and then jerked her head up again. She very purposely stepped toward her calf. Still, I said nothing. Carrying the newborn, I retraced my steps, weaving my way through the saplings, crouching beneath the boughs, feeling the thorns tear my flesh and the sting of nettles. I brushed past a branch, which accidentally swung back and slapped the cow in the face. Still, she followed me.
I nearly tripped over the downed fence, but managed to step through the wires and into the pasture. The cow followed, exhibiting surprising agility. I carefully placed the calf in the back of the Gator. Any second now, I expected the cow to bolt and return to where she had her calf.
She didn't. I started the engine and slowly drove the half-mile uphill back to the barn. The cow followed the entire distance, never falling more than one step behind her baby. I drove into the barnyard, parked, and carefully carried the calf into the maternity pen. The mother was right on my heels, never stopping until I placed the calf atop a bed of fodder and backed away.
I would milk the cow and feed the calf in due course, but for the time being I simply stood back and watched. I just love it when everything goes right.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
