I knew there was something wrong as soon as I saw her. She was standing alone, holding back, rejected from the crowd. As the others moved away in their social pack, she simply stood back and watched.
I have to say: One thing about working with cows is that they have earned their reputation as motherly, docile, gentle creatures. Their presence can be so soothing. To sit and watch my herd graze contently across a hillside during summer is nothing short of therapeutic. At night, their bells clink softly. The cow is one species of animal that seems to have no worries. Yes sir, they have earned their reputation as motherly, docile, gentle creatures.
In practice this is generally true. However, as I approached the straggler on this day, I was reminded that there is always an exception. She froze, eyes wide and panicked, watching my every move. I called out and patted her, calmly urging her forward. I knew something was wrong before she even flinched; her posture, her attitude, and her self-separation from the herd - something was not right. Sure enough, she jerked her head violently and lurched, making every effort not to put weight on her front leg. That's why the poor girl had not stuck with the herd - she had a broken shoulder.
This young cow's injury was the tragic result of the exception to the rule that all dairy cattle are docile, gentle creatures. With much irritation, I have seen cows race determinedly across the barnyard, only to brutally T-bone an unsuspecting girl. She'll flop to the ground, as the aggressor stands arrogantly above, waiting for her to get back up. Once on her feet, the two may fight and push each other, before getting bored and forgetting what they were doing in the first place. Or, one may end up back on the ground in a flailing, scraping cloud of hooves.
Likewise, not unlike a flock of chickens, the cows may pick out a weak, slow girl, and focus their collective aggression on her. One small heifer with poor front feet was not allowed access to the feed bunk without first having to push her way through several catty bodies. I suppose cows are just like any other creature - they can put on a face of innocence, only to mask their true manipulative intentions.
Poor Jecklyn - she limped and struggled her way to the barn, through a lonely side gate. I angrily surveyed the rest of the herd, which stared back with soft, doey eyes. "I didn't do it," they all told me, without saying a word. What a bunch of children.
What a tragedy that Jecklyn had been struck down. She was my first heifer calf. She was the first of a new generation of young cattle, the literal symbol of my farm's independence. When she came of age to start milking, I knew others would soon follow. No longer would I have to look to outside sources to maintain the size of my herd. And, she was an exceptional young milk cow. From the start, she milked at herd average, quite remarkable for a brand new Brown Swiss.
Even with the severe injury, Jecklyn forced her way into the barn, to be milked as though nothing was wrong. Her shoulder was puffy and swollen, but normal temperature. She could not put any weight on her front leg, and braced against the stanchion. But remarkably, I noticed that her eyes burned with a determined will to live. I have seen animals in similar situations simply give up, only to waste away to nothing. This cow was different. Already in her young life, she had given so much. She had been an icon for independence and self-reliance. Who was I to give up on her?
In a situation like this, rules need to be bent and exceptions taken. I cleared out a pen for Jecklyn. Typically I use this space to rear calves, but by placing Jecklyn in there, she need only walk 15 feet to get milked. I would have to carry feed and water to her, change her bedding, and clean her pen every day. The extra chores would add a half-hour to my daily routine, but suddenly I was glad that I had the facilities and capabilities to do so.
The accident occurred nearly three weeks ago. During this time, Jecklyn lost a great deal of weight, but has since gained it back. Despite her injury, she is producing nearly as much milk as before. We even have our own twice-daily routine. As soon as I enter the barn, she struggles to her feet and waits patiently. I make sure she has feed and water while I clean her pen. I open her gate, and she limps to her own special stall. I give her two aspirin, which she hates, to help ease the pain. As always, she grinds her teeth and wrinkles her nose in disgust.
After she is milked, Jecklyn turns out of her stall, and gently makes her way to the pen, where fresh feed and water are always waiting. Once there, she will turn around to watch me milk the rest of the herd, her eyes bright and grateful. By the time I am finished, she has laid down on her bedding and is chewing her cud.
I do not know if she realizes the extra care and attention she requires. Perhaps it would have been easier to just give up on Jecklyn and move on.
Then again, what would that say about my farm?
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I have to say: One thing about working with cows is that they have earned their reputation as motherly, docile, gentle creatures. Their presence can be so soothing. To sit and watch my herd graze contently across a hillside during summer is nothing short of therapeutic. At night, their bells clink softly. The cow is one species of animal that seems to have no worries. Yes sir, they have earned their reputation as motherly, docile, gentle creatures.
In practice this is generally true. However, as I approached the straggler on this day, I was reminded that there is always an exception. She froze, eyes wide and panicked, watching my every move. I called out and patted her, calmly urging her forward. I knew something was wrong before she even flinched; her posture, her attitude, and her self-separation from the herd - something was not right. Sure enough, she jerked her head violently and lurched, making every effort not to put weight on her front leg. That's why the poor girl had not stuck with the herd - she had a broken shoulder.
This young cow's injury was the tragic result of the exception to the rule that all dairy cattle are docile, gentle creatures. With much irritation, I have seen cows race determinedly across the barnyard, only to brutally T-bone an unsuspecting girl. She'll flop to the ground, as the aggressor stands arrogantly above, waiting for her to get back up. Once on her feet, the two may fight and push each other, before getting bored and forgetting what they were doing in the first place. Or, one may end up back on the ground in a flailing, scraping cloud of hooves.
Likewise, not unlike a flock of chickens, the cows may pick out a weak, slow girl, and focus their collective aggression on her. One small heifer with poor front feet was not allowed access to the feed bunk without first having to push her way through several catty bodies. I suppose cows are just like any other creature - they can put on a face of innocence, only to mask their true manipulative intentions.
Poor Jecklyn - she limped and struggled her way to the barn, through a lonely side gate. I angrily surveyed the rest of the herd, which stared back with soft, doey eyes. "I didn't do it," they all told me, without saying a word. What a bunch of children.
What a tragedy that Jecklyn had been struck down. She was my first heifer calf. She was the first of a new generation of young cattle, the literal symbol of my farm's independence. When she came of age to start milking, I knew others would soon follow. No longer would I have to look to outside sources to maintain the size of my herd. And, she was an exceptional young milk cow. From the start, she milked at herd average, quite remarkable for a brand new Brown Swiss.
Even with the severe injury, Jecklyn forced her way into the barn, to be milked as though nothing was wrong. Her shoulder was puffy and swollen, but normal temperature. She could not put any weight on her front leg, and braced against the stanchion. But remarkably, I noticed that her eyes burned with a determined will to live. I have seen animals in similar situations simply give up, only to waste away to nothing. This cow was different. Already in her young life, she had given so much. She had been an icon for independence and self-reliance. Who was I to give up on her?
In a situation like this, rules need to be bent and exceptions taken. I cleared out a pen for Jecklyn. Typically I use this space to rear calves, but by placing Jecklyn in there, she need only walk 15 feet to get milked. I would have to carry feed and water to her, change her bedding, and clean her pen every day. The extra chores would add a half-hour to my daily routine, but suddenly I was glad that I had the facilities and capabilities to do so.
The accident occurred nearly three weeks ago. During this time, Jecklyn lost a great deal of weight, but has since gained it back. Despite her injury, she is producing nearly as much milk as before. We even have our own twice-daily routine. As soon as I enter the barn, she struggles to her feet and waits patiently. I make sure she has feed and water while I clean her pen. I open her gate, and she limps to her own special stall. I give her two aspirin, which she hates, to help ease the pain. As always, she grinds her teeth and wrinkles her nose in disgust.
After she is milked, Jecklyn turns out of her stall, and gently makes her way to the pen, where fresh feed and water are always waiting. Once there, she will turn around to watch me milk the rest of the herd, her eyes bright and grateful. By the time I am finished, she has laid down on her bedding and is chewing her cud.
I do not know if she realizes the extra care and attention she requires. Perhaps it would have been easier to just give up on Jecklyn and move on.
Then again, what would that say about my farm?
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
