As recently as a generation ago, most dairy farms maintained a pasture area for their cows. My family’s dairy farm utilized a 10-acre parcel of land that was pleasantly shaded with old-growth maple trees and unsuited for crop production. This little meadow was perfect for grazing cows, and for giving them a natural space to lie down at night. The benefits of grazing cows is immediately recognized — they stay cleaner, they wear their hooves down naturally, they get fresh air, sunlight and exercise, and the overall cost of dairy production is lower than confinement operations. All good things.
Of course, with pastureland and laneways come the never-ending task of building, maintaining, and replacing fence lines. Throughout my childhood, this was a constant task, and it seemed as though every year there was a new stretch of fence to focus on. Fencing was a self-perpetuating obligation on the farm, and you could always tell the farm kids by the cuts on their arms. In terms of fencing, if a facial scar was a mark of pride to the aristocratic European, so too was the trademark forearm scar of a Midwestern farm kid.
Our dairy cattle fences were five-strand barbed wire. On each end of the line, heavy wooden posts were cross-braced, and then each barbed wire was stretched tightly and held in place with steel posts. Fence building was a matter of pride to the farmer, but also an insufferable task to any kid that was chastised for not driving the steel posts in evenly, or straight.
And the cows, although given acres of lush grass to gorge themselves on, seemed determined to test the resilience of the fence. The phrase, “The grass is always greener” was certainly popularized by someone watching a cow turn her head sideways and carefully insert it through the strands of wire, and then press her entire body weight against the fence in order to reach a mouthful of grass on the other side. After a few years of this, fences would start to lean, wires would break, and clips would snap off. Hence the never-ending nature of maintaining fence lines on the farm.
Running electric wires certainly helped, but as I observed, did little to deter the pushy nature of a hungry cow. For example, when I started dairy farming on my own, I ran three-wire high tensile electric fences to keep the cows at bay. I often sat out at night and watched the cows graze after chores were done; there will never be as peaceful a sight as cows grazing on a grass hillside.
On one particular evening, I watched a cow turn her head sideways, kneel down to ground level, and reach deliberately underneath the bottom wire so as to eat from the other side of the fence. As she leaned forward, the top of her neck made contact with the bottom wire. I could actually see the blue electric spark in the twilight, and could hear the metallic snap of electricity as she made contact. I know this sound well — the sound of a fence shorting out is recognizable to any farmer worth their salt.
The cow pulled suddenly back, away from the electric wire. She stood up, walked about ten feet down the fence, and repeated the procedure. Again, as she stretched her neck underneath the bottom wire, she received a zap from the fence, and pulled back. Again she stood up, walked another ten feet down the line, and did it again. For more than 30 minutes I watched this cow lean under the fence, get zapped, retreat, and repeat. As twilight turned to dusk, and then darkness, I could discern the blue flash from each zap as she made her way further and further down the line. She must have gotten zapped several dozen times, but the shock did little to hinder her curiosity of the quality of grass on the other side of the fence.
Horses on the other hand, are a different breed altogether. A single electrified high-visibility strand of poly wire is more than sufficient to keep an entire herd of horses confined. My uncle used to proclaim, “A horse can smell electricity.” Maybe so. I have never seen a horse actually receive a shock from an electrified fence, but I have seen, with my own eyes, a horse carefully and deliberately push against the wires of a disabled or unplugged fence. I have seen them carefully grab the plastic handle of an electrified slinky gate, open it, and let themselves out without getting shocked. One particularly devious mare used to open her mouth, grab the doorknob of the feed room, crack open the door, and then push it wide open with her nose in order to gain access — all while looking me directly in the eyes as if to say, “I am only confined because I let you confine me.”
If there is one universal truth to farming: How we treat our livestock is a precursor to how we, as a society, will eventually treat each other. Truth be told, the absence of fences for grazing cows is akin to the absence of front porches, rocking chairs, and pleasant neighborly conversation.
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
