(part 3)
There
was a lot to learn about being a farm wife, even on a three-acre
mini-farm. One of those lessons was a
fact of life that milk cows have to be freshened, a process
that does not involve some sort of bovine Corral Number Five. It meant that about one year after a cow’s
last calf was born, her milk supply would begin to dwindle. In nature, after a year, the calf would have
long since been weaned and the cow prepared to mate again. Therefore, dairy farmers, in order to keep
each cow producing, have to breed their cows on a regular basis. Most don’t keep their own bull, but rather
work through a veterinary breeding service via artificial insemination. This was the route we chose to go.
By using a breeding service, we were
able to pick the breed we wanted for the calf.
Carmon chose Black Angus, a beef breed.
He helped the breeder, but I stayed in the house. I have a lot of my Victorian great-grandfather
– Lord Billy – in me after all. Some sights are better left unseen!
Shortly afterward, Dot’s milk supply
essentially disappeared. We would milk
her just enough to relieve the pressure, but not enough to strip her dry and
soon she stopped producing all together.
Carmon was pretty matter-of-fact about everything, but I watched the progress of that pregnancy as if I were the calf’s grandmother. As the time drew close, I watched for all of the signs that she might be ready to deliver. We had the vets phone number on the emergency list of numbers by the phone in the kitchen in case she seemed to have a problem.
The afternoon before the calf’s
arrival, Dot was showing all the signs.
I had read everything I could get my hands on about the subject and
had helped countless kittens, puppies, and even twin goats come into
the world, so I felt like I was ready. What
I didn’t know and wasn’t prepared for was the fact that a calving cow has a
scent similar to a cow in heat. Sure
enough, mid-afternoon, Dummy came lumbering down the lane, trailing the rope that was supposed to have tethered him in the corral. Since we didn’t have a bull, we didn’t have a
bullpen strong enough to keep one in – or out!
I panicked and called Carmon. The problem was that he worked many miles away in Phoenix and traffic was bad. It was up to me. Carmon’s advice was that I stand in front of the corral and shoo Dummy away! I told him that I might be naïve, but I wasn’t plum stupid! I had no intention of standing in front of an 800-pound bull with romance on his mind. On the other hand, I had no intention of allowing him to get to Dot, either.
The kids offered to help me and we all took sticks and brooms and whatever else we could get our hands on. The younger kids beat on pan lids with spoons and hollered a lot while the older kids and I shooed Dummy as best we could. We finally got him trapped in a dead-end drive way and Beed drove the big yellow truck across the only exit. I called the neighbor and told her what was happening. She told me she didn’t want to disturb her husband just to pick up Dummy. I told her that if that bull got in with our cow and harmed her or the calf, there would be big problems, particularly from Carmon. Therefore, they had two choices: They could come now and pick up Dummy or they could come later after Carmon came home and pick up an 800-pound package of hamburger. They came and got their bull.
~ ~ ~
I grew to love Dot and would have been
contented to have her live out her life with us until she finally died at a
contented old age. That was not to
be. One night, she got out of the
corral. She spent all night grazing at
the haystack behind the barn. To make
matters worse, it had rained earlier that day and the back lawn had sprouted a
huge crop of toadstools, many of those very close to the barn. In the morning, Dot was lying on her side
moaning. I could tell from the looks of
the haystack and the half-eaten toadstools what had happened.
Carmon was working a convention in
Phoenix and literally could not break away.
It was Sunday, so the large animal vets in the area were either in
church or on the golf course (I know, because I called several). Our cattle rancher friend was also in
church. This, of course, was in an era
before cell phones. Even pagers were
rare. Beed finally got through to him
and he came over late that afternoon. He
did what he could to relieve the bloating, but it was too late. The over abundance of hay along with the
toadstools had done their work. Dot was
dying.
I felt so helpless. I couldn’t even ease her pain. Most of all, I didn’t want her to die
alone. I stayed with her all afternoon,
sitting in the muddy field, with Dot’s head in my lap. I stroked her sweet face and cried as if my
heart would break. It must have somehow
brought her comfort, because she stopped moaning and just looked at me as I
wept, my tears splashing first on my cheek, then on hers. It was late in the afternoon and the western
sky was turning purple, when Dot closed her eyes for the last time, dying in my
arms. When Carmon came home, just a few
minutes later, he found me still sitting there in the mud, weeping over my
beloved Dot.
We never owned another milk
cow. How do you replace a friend?
© Gebara Education, 2001. No portion of this book may
be copied by any method without the express written permission of the author
Picture of Chanel #5 from www.luxuryy.com
Picture of bull from www.123rf.com
Picture of toadstools from www.affordablehousinginstitute.com
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