This article has been a long time in the making - more than one year, in fact. There are plenty of things to love about spring. First, the days stretch longer. The sun shines stronger and more direct. Precipitation comes in a liquid form, and then the snow melts. For the briefest of moments, the earth is exposed as barren, lifeless and without color. Finally, the bleak dirtscape that is the countryside is transformed practically overnight. It is a thing of beauty, to witness such life begun anew.
As I write this article, I find myself at the long-awaited transition; the period of time when only a few weathered, stubborn snowdrifts still cling to their existence. Any time now, bright shoots of green will poke through last year's rotten carpet. Sure, there may be one or two Hail Mary flurries to blow through, but one thing is for certain - spring is here, in spirit and body.
Which brings me to the single most enjoyable experience of my routine. It is something I look forward to - something that brings me greater joy and amusement above all else. Sure, I have written glowingly of airplanes, motorcycle trips, and vacations to Australia and elsewhere, but nothing - I mean nothing - compares to that first day in spring, when I get to put the cows out on grass for the first time.
The cows can sense a change well in advance. Before the temperatures are perceivably warmer, just as daylight is beginning to creep later, they know what is on the horizon. Come March 1, without fail, the herd is noticeably happier. There is a bounce to their step. They carry their heads a tad higher. Their perked ears advertise alertness. Sometimes, when going about our daily routine, the cows actually break into dance. Heels are kicked, heads playfully tossed, bodies move with dexterity not normally associated with cattle.
There is no doubt whatsoever - the girls know they are about to be turned out onto grass.
In the days leading up to the breakout, every conceivable diversion from routine is viewed with hyper-expectation, followed by disappointment. I might walk toward the pasture gate in a faster-than-normal pace. A rumor flash burns through the herd that yes - today's the day. Hooves scrape, bodies push and shove, everyone squeezes the gate so as to be first; expectation runs high, until I walk past without stopping and the falsity of the illusion becomes apparent. Slowly, they turn and meander back to the barn. A few lost souls remain, looking forlorn over the gate as if to say, "You mean we're not going out today?"
When the day finally does arrive, disappointment after disappointment has led to disenchantment. I walk toward the pasture gate, slyly eying the herd, which gives me no response. A few heads look up, but I imagine their thought-process to be something like this: "Here we go again," sounding forlorn. "Why is he over there? It's not like he's going to open the gate or anything." Dejection, "Guess we'll just have to stay in here forever."
The chain is rusty, having not been unclasped for months. The sound of the chain rattling against the gate causes a great disturbance in the force. Literally, within microseconds the entire herd of cows has simply levitated from various positions and compressed itself into the bottleneck leading out to pasture. I take a second to look at them, since this event comes but once a year.
What I see is an ocean of grand expectation. All eyes are bright, shining sweetly with hope and anticipation. Several cows stretch out their neck, putting their head over and past the gate, as though doing so will bring the green pasture within reach. Long strings of drool arc lazily in the breeze. All is dead silent, bar the occasional grunt.
I swing open the gate for the first time of the year. I have to sprint, so as not to be trampled. I jump the fence and watch them go. The herd is stampeding, hooves thundering, clumps of dirt breaking loose and being flung skyward. Despite the moisture in the ground, a slight dust cloud rises, as though the herd's energy alone has baked the earth.
I make my way to the pasture. The cows have followed the laneway and entered the correct paddock. Like water through a floodgate, the animals burst forth in chaotic disorder, fanning out in all directions. They are running, bounding, stretching their legs and sinking their feet into grass for the first time in months.
As always, a few of the older cows are just now walking into the pasture. These matriarchs take their sweet time. They do not run foolishly like the heathenish heifers. After all, they've done this countless times already - don't you know? But then, the allure of soft, fresh pasture grass overcomes even the proudest old cow. I laugh out loud as an old battleaxe careens across the hillside, her udder sagging and swaying like a watermelon in a canvas bag. She throws her head and challenges an entire group of young, first-lactation cows, scattering them with her obvious seniority.
Eventually the girls lose their steam and a dawning realization sets in: "Hey, we're trampling our food." The energetic bedlam is replaced by calm, methodical grazing. The transition is as quick, flawless and deliberate as though a sense of embarrassment has set in: "They're watching us - quick, everybody graze."
It's too bad this only happens once a year.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
As I write this article, I find myself at the long-awaited transition; the period of time when only a few weathered, stubborn snowdrifts still cling to their existence. Any time now, bright shoots of green will poke through last year's rotten carpet. Sure, there may be one or two Hail Mary flurries to blow through, but one thing is for certain - spring is here, in spirit and body.
Which brings me to the single most enjoyable experience of my routine. It is something I look forward to - something that brings me greater joy and amusement above all else. Sure, I have written glowingly of airplanes, motorcycle trips, and vacations to Australia and elsewhere, but nothing - I mean nothing - compares to that first day in spring, when I get to put the cows out on grass for the first time.
The cows can sense a change well in advance. Before the temperatures are perceivably warmer, just as daylight is beginning to creep later, they know what is on the horizon. Come March 1, without fail, the herd is noticeably happier. There is a bounce to their step. They carry their heads a tad higher. Their perked ears advertise alertness. Sometimes, when going about our daily routine, the cows actually break into dance. Heels are kicked, heads playfully tossed, bodies move with dexterity not normally associated with cattle.
There is no doubt whatsoever - the girls know they are about to be turned out onto grass.
In the days leading up to the breakout, every conceivable diversion from routine is viewed with hyper-expectation, followed by disappointment. I might walk toward the pasture gate in a faster-than-normal pace. A rumor flash burns through the herd that yes - today's the day. Hooves scrape, bodies push and shove, everyone squeezes the gate so as to be first; expectation runs high, until I walk past without stopping and the falsity of the illusion becomes apparent. Slowly, they turn and meander back to the barn. A few lost souls remain, looking forlorn over the gate as if to say, "You mean we're not going out today?"
When the day finally does arrive, disappointment after disappointment has led to disenchantment. I walk toward the pasture gate, slyly eying the herd, which gives me no response. A few heads look up, but I imagine their thought-process to be something like this: "Here we go again," sounding forlorn. "Why is he over there? It's not like he's going to open the gate or anything." Dejection, "Guess we'll just have to stay in here forever."
The chain is rusty, having not been unclasped for months. The sound of the chain rattling against the gate causes a great disturbance in the force. Literally, within microseconds the entire herd of cows has simply levitated from various positions and compressed itself into the bottleneck leading out to pasture. I take a second to look at them, since this event comes but once a year.
What I see is an ocean of grand expectation. All eyes are bright, shining sweetly with hope and anticipation. Several cows stretch out their neck, putting their head over and past the gate, as though doing so will bring the green pasture within reach. Long strings of drool arc lazily in the breeze. All is dead silent, bar the occasional grunt.
I swing open the gate for the first time of the year. I have to sprint, so as not to be trampled. I jump the fence and watch them go. The herd is stampeding, hooves thundering, clumps of dirt breaking loose and being flung skyward. Despite the moisture in the ground, a slight dust cloud rises, as though the herd's energy alone has baked the earth.
I make my way to the pasture. The cows have followed the laneway and entered the correct paddock. Like water through a floodgate, the animals burst forth in chaotic disorder, fanning out in all directions. They are running, bounding, stretching their legs and sinking their feet into grass for the first time in months.
As always, a few of the older cows are just now walking into the pasture. These matriarchs take their sweet time. They do not run foolishly like the heathenish heifers. After all, they've done this countless times already - don't you know? But then, the allure of soft, fresh pasture grass overcomes even the proudest old cow. I laugh out loud as an old battleaxe careens across the hillside, her udder sagging and swaying like a watermelon in a canvas bag. She throws her head and challenges an entire group of young, first-lactation cows, scattering them with her obvious seniority.
Eventually the girls lose their steam and a dawning realization sets in: "Hey, we're trampling our food." The energetic bedlam is replaced by calm, methodical grazing. The transition is as quick, flawless and deliberate as though a sense of embarrassment has set in: "They're watching us - quick, everybody graze."
It's too bad this only happens once a year.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
