Seriously, it seems as though we've been on the road all day long, and we never got any farther from home than Cliff's brother's farm at Higginsville.
We had already planned to take Bonnie-the-Jersey-cow to spend time with Cliff's brother's bull. Phil is out of state just now, and his pickup has been borrowed by a grandson. So we borrowed granddaughter Monica's pickup to transport the cow.
Monica spent last night at our house. I mentioned on Facebook that I was making biscuits and gravy today, and ended up with over seventy comments on that status update. Many people from across the country invited themselves to my house. It was pretty funny, actually.
This morning I made a double batch of baking powder biscuits and stretched the gravy so there would be enough for my daughter and son-in-law and Cliff's sister next door.
That's how we started our day. Then we headed to Cliff's brother's farm to get the livestock trailer.
Monica did a great job of driving us there, although once Cliff hooked us up to the trailer, she wanted him to drive. Back home, we loaded up Bonnie and Max. I really felt bad about hauling them around with the temperatures so frigid, but the timing (we hope) is right for her to feel romantic at some point in the next few days. Back to Phil's farm where we unloaded the pair. Phil's bull seemed eager to meet his new girl friend, even though she was not yet in a romantic mood. The bull, along with most of the herd, followed Bonnie all over the pasture, with poor Max trailing behind wondering what was going on.
Home again, and Cliff's sister had fixed pizza for everybody. Good stuff. Then I came to the house and collapsed in my chair, because it felt like I had been on the road all day long. Oh wait.. I had!
For the next week, Jody and Babe are alone on the place. At least they have each other.
I wanted to go to a music show this evening, but it was in the same town to which we've already traveled twice today. It's a show put on by relatives of the twins next door. There was a very talented guest scheduled that I really wanted to see, but I don't want to leave home again. It's cold outside.
This is probably too much information for some and will probably bore most city folks, but for the few people who enjoy Bonnie's exploits, here is the current state of things:
It's always a problem owning just one or two cows, because there's no way you can afford to keep a bull. I used to have excellent good fortune using artificial insemination, but we just couldn't get the timing right with Bonnie. It would be wonderful if we had a next-door neighbor who would let us bring Bonnie to visit once in awhile, but we don't. Many cattle breeders don't want to risk bringing in a cow from outside the herd because of disease, so I don't even ask local farmers.
So for the past two years we've taken Bonnie on a road trip of thirty miles or so to visit a friendly bull. These days that's complicated because Cliff sold our pickup. So here's the procedure: When we notice Bonnie showing signs of heat we mark it down on the calendar and make plans to get her to Cliff's brother's Hereford bull the next time she comes in heat. This involves driving thirty miles to get his brother's pickup and livestock trailer, bringing it home, loading up the cow and her calf, taking her to Phil's, and then driving back home.
We don't wait until she comes in heat to take her there because if you don't give her time to get acquainted with the herd, they're all jumping on her, pushing her around, and trying to establish dominance. If she was in heat upon her arrival, it would not be good for her; she'd not only have a 2,000 pound bull on her every half-hour or so, but every cow in the herd would want to take a few turns. That's how cows get acquainted, especially if somebody is in heat.
Usually we catch Bonnie in heat within six weeks of having a calf. I don't know if I wasn't diligent enough about watching her or if it just took her longer this time, but this year we didn't see signs of heat until her calf was four months old. And even then we weren't positive about it.
Almost a month ago it appeared fairly obvious that finally she was looking for a bull, so I marked it down on the calendar so we could plan on taking her to Phil's place next time. Wouldn't you know, Cliff was working ten hours a day during the time Bonnie needed to go visiting, and there just wasn't a reasonable time to make that trip. "Well," I told Cliff, "we weren't 100% sure she was in heat anyhow."
Obviously she was, because a couple days ago we saw the signs again.
So in a couple weeks we'll take her to the bull. Her calf will accompany her, not because he needs the milk, but because Bonnie has to be milked and he does a fine job of it. He will be six months old when his mother is bred again, so there will be quite a long space between calves. Real farmers want to get a calf from each cow every twelve months. Since I'm not a real farmer, it's no big deal. I'll just be happy to have her bred so I can keep her around longer.
If Bonnie's "date" is successful, she would have her next calf in November. That's an excellent time, because that would give us the whole summer to go anywhere we want without having to stay home for a week before the calf is born and then another month or two of waiting until it can consume all it's mother's milk.
By the way, Bonnie has already lived as long as most cows in commercial dairies: The average herd life of a dairy cow is three lactations; Bonnie is on her third lactation now. If she were in a commercial dairy she would have been culled in her second lactation due to mastitis in two quarters. 20% of the ground beef in this country is from culled dairy cows.
As long as Bonnie can conceive, and as long as she has one functioning teat so she can raise a calf, she stays. I only milk her because I enjoy it; when we're buying milk in the store, I seldom purchase over a half-gallon a week, so we can afford it.
So that's your Bonnie update. We know she is coming in heat... now all we have to do is hope she conceives.
Experience has taught us a few things about introducing a new cow into the herd.
For instance, if you turn a new cow out into a pasture, one of the first things she will do is walk the fence looking for a way out. With fences like ours, it would be very possible that she would find a way out and start looking for her herd, which in this case is twenty-five miles away. Another reason for keeping her in the small pen: If the horses see a new cow, they'll chase her mercilessly. Once they can become accustomed to her presence across the fence, they'll behave themselves and accept her once she's turned loose.
To prevent this from happening with Babe we had Cliff's brother unload her into the small pen behind the barn. Cliff suggested we put Jody in with her so she could be getting used to one of our cows at a time.
I wish I had been able to get a picture of what happened first: Jody, being young and foolish, decided to get into a head-butting match with Babe. You can imagine who won. Cows have a pecking order, and a new cow always has to figure out where she belongs in the world of cow-pasture politics. Once she firmly established that she was Jody's boss, they settled down and became friends. They spent Babe's first night here together, and most of her first day.
Yesterday afternoon I called Bonnie and Max up and let them into the pen. Oh, poor Max. Once again, I wish I had a picture, but by the time I got my camera it was over: Babe actually got him in a corner and got him down on the ground, continuing to head-butt him. No harm was done, and poor Max now knows where he stands in the herd. I believe he is low man on the totem pole. I don't have a picture of Babe and Max after the TKO, because I decided to put him in the stall so I could milk Bonnie this morning.
I got my nerve up and milked Bonnie. I put the calf in the stall overnight so there would be milk for me, but after I had done so, I noticed Bonnie's back quarters appeared to have quite a bit of milk in them. If I had waited an hour or so, the calf would probably taken care of it, since he's finally managing to consume all the milk she produces. But it was getting late, so I decided to milk the excess myself.
She was somewhat restless, and I was a nervous wreck, but I made it through the task. Then yesterday morning I let the calf nurse on one side and I milked on the other, and this worked like a charm. The cow stood firmly in place, except when the calf butted her trying to get more milk.
Someone left a comment suggesting Cliff do the milking. Ha! It wasn't Cliff's choice to keep a dairy cow; he hates milking. I'm the one who insisted on buying a Jersey. It isn't like two old people need that much milk. Also, Cliff's hands are so big that he'd have to milk with thumb and forefinger, and it would take him an hour (he did offer, by the way). With his arthritis, an hour of sitting on a stool bending over a bucket would be pure hell for him.
Cows used to have larger teats, but once milking machines became common, one trait breeders strove for in dairy cows was smaller teats. Why? Because the bigger the teat on a cow, the more likely it is to get stepped on by another cow, or to freeze in winter. So these days, dairy cows have huge udders with small teats.
Anyhow. After buying two half-gallons of milk since the incident, looks like we're back to raw milk.
The grandson, who took over Cliff's job when he retired, is now working twelve hours a day. This was going to leave Titan, the Great Dane pup, alone for much of the time, so Arick's girl friend is bringing him by here so I can dog-sit. He's a good pup, and sticks very close to the house at all times, so he's no problem at all.
Because there is so much work at Cliff's old place of employment right now, he may have the chance to work there part-time, maybe one week out of the month. I have mixed feelings about this, but it's up to him. He could replenish his tractor fund with the extra moolah, which would be great for him. But will it feel like retirement if he has to go back to work sometimes? Or maybe he'd enjoy getting out and seeing his old gang at work; I'm leaving it totally up to him and keeping my mouth shut.
Here's a blog I just discovered: I read an article in Reader's Digest yesterday, "Things nurses won't tell you", and the article mentioned that one of the nurses they quoted has a very interesting blog. "Head Nurse" uses some graphic language, so if you are easily shocked, you might not enjoy her brand of humor. I found her delightfully, refreshingly funny.
Someone left an anonymous comment asking how my knee is doing since the replacement. Well, most of the time I don't think about it much, which is a good thing. I walk with Cliff every day. I still do the therapy exercises when I think about it; it's a funny thing, nobody tells you exactly how long to keep doing the exercises. Searches on the Internet have told me "at least two months" and "as long as six months".
If I ride the motorcycle two or three days in a row, my knee gets a little "achey", and if I'm on my feet in the kitchen a lot, it swells a little. Not enough to talk about, really, and not enough to slow me down.
This subject brings up a story that I have intended to share for several days, but I just had not found the right time to do it.
Bonnie-the-cow has gotten to the point lately where she is restless when I'm milking her, once her feed is gone. With her head in the stanchion, she can't go anywhere, but she'll move first to her left, then to her right, with her back feet.
"I'd just give her more feed," Cliff said.
That cow can eat so fast, I'd be giving her an $8 sack of feed every time I milked if I tried to keep feed in front of her all the time I'm milking.
One morning while I was milking, she moved rapidly toward me and knocked me backward; no big deal, but you know, with an artificial knee, it makes you think.
"Why don't you just put the kicker on her?" my husband asked.
I found these pictures on the Internet of the kind of anti-kick device I have, so you could see what I'm talking about.
You adjust the thing to fit the cow, and indeed, kicking is an impossibility with that kicker in place. The last time I used it was probably fifteen years ago on KoKo, a big cow. It had been hanging in the barn ever since.
I got it off the nail on which it had hung for these many years and found out it was full of mud from mud daubers, and rusted so badly I couldn't get it to adjust. Bonnie was in the little barn lot, so I held it up to her to see how much adjustment would be needed. Then I took it to Cliff in the shop, and he proceeded to get it working again. He'd make it smaller, I'd go try it on the cow. This was repeated about three times, and he finally put it on the smallest setting available.
Fasten your seat belts, folks.
I walked up to Bonnie and put the kicker on her as she stood in the lot. This time she felt the tightness of the thing and took off bucking like a bronco through two gates and off down the hill. She couldn't set one foot in front of the other, but she could buck. I hurried after her, afraid she would end up in a ditch or something, the way she was going. She wouldn't stop and let me get near her. Then in the midst of all this, she remembered her calf and started bellowing to him; obviously she thought she was under attack from some invisible monster, and she didn't want her baby to be abducted.
Well, I finally did get the kicker off her. I only wish I had stopped at that.
I got the cow back to the barn, put feed in the manger, and let her in. I locked her head in the stanchion.
And I started to put the kicker on her.
In the blink of an eye, before I could get the thing all the way over her backbone, she gave a kick forward with the hoof on my side, made no contact, and then kicked backward with all the force she owned. The hoof, moving at lightning speed, made contact with my left leg about three inches below my artificial knee.
I let her out of the barn and went to the shop to tell my family what had happened.
I was shaken up, believe me. The doctor once told me I could kneel on soft surfaces if I wanted to, but to NEVER fall on my knee hard, because the kneecap is plastic and it can break.
So my first thought was, "Thank God she didn't kick my knee."
There was a huge bruise that hasn't totally gone away yet.
Now the only thought that nags at me from the back of my mind is this: "What if that blow loosened up the cement that holds the prosthesis in place?"
This cement loosens over time anyway, but at a very slow rate.
I don't feel like any damage was done, but the thought is there. It's no use to go to the doctor and ask her to check me out, because there isn't anything she could do about it if it was loosened. I have an appointment in February, and we'll see if she says anything about premature loosening.
I haven't milked Bonnie since the incident. Oh, I'll tackle it at some point. I'm just not ready yet.
Lest you think bad things of Bonnie, she wasn't kicking at me; in her mind, that terrible monster-like device that grabbed her earlier was about to get her again. She was kicking at the monster, not me; I just happened to be in the way.
A week ago, I thought Max, the calf, was finally able to consume all his mother's milk. Every. drop. of. it. I rejoiced, because when he reaches that point we can leave home and not worry about Bonnie getting mastitis from an engorged udder.
For two days I didn't have to milk her.
Then I had to start milking again, because each morning she'd show up with two quarters that were so filled with milk they were solid to the touch. I had gotten my hopes up for nothing.
Yesterday morning I saw that the two quarters on her right side... the side I milk... were full and ready to be milked. I put feed in the stanchion, opened the door, pinned it back so it would stay open, and began to milk. Pretty soon Max came through the open door. He always does this, and I let him nose around the barn while I'm milking. It keeps him easy to handle, and comfortable with my presence. Because one day, you know, we'll load him and take him to the butcher, and I'd like it to be easy when we load him up.
This time, he went to Bonnie's left side and starting nursing. That's the side he'd already sucked dry. Meanwhile, I was milking away on my side of the cow. Max butted at Bonnie's udder from his side, which is something calves do when trying to make their moms let down more milk. All the milk was on my side, so he was wasting his time. He butted again and again. Then he came around to my side.
"Oh no you don't," I told him. "Not on MY watch. I've already started milking; I'm going to have to wash this bucket when I'm done. You are NOT getting any of it now. You should have sucked while the sucking was good."
He returned to his side of the cow and started butting at her udder again. I grabbed the stock prod (a harmless fiberglass pole you use to smack cattle with when you want them to move, not the kind that shocks them) and started reaching under Bonnie's belly to smack his legs. I wanted him to get out of my life.
I could have milked out a gallon of milk and let him have the rest from my side of the cow. The trouble with that is, "the cream is in the strippings", as my dad used to say. The last milk you strip from a cow's udder is the highest in butterfat. Cliff and I don't need cream, I'll be the first to admit. However, since I've been making butter with the cream I get from Bonnie (no, we don't need butter either... do you want to make something of it?), when I am forced to milk a cow, I want all the cream to which I am entitled.
Max finally gave up and went outside. I came in with my milk and strained two gallons; there was still about a quart left for the cats. When I went out, Max was doing his best to get milk from his mother, but of course she had none left.
The up side of this is that he must have been hungry enough to keep her sucked dry for twenty-four hours, because this morning her ample udder was floppy and empty. Once again, I have made it for a whole day without milking.
I'm not going to get my hopes up. But I really, really wish that calf would become a glutton.
I noticed recently that an entry I did about Angelfood Ministries was getting a lot of hits; today I went to check their website just for the heck of it, and I found out they have ceased operation.
We tried Angelfood Ministries one single time. I believe we paid $32, and got a small box with not many groceries in it. A lot of what was in the box was overly processed. I recall there were some steaks, a cheaper cut, that I used in stir-fries and for beef tips. And there was a frozen pumpkin pie ready to be put in the oven.
This was before we butchered Bonnie's first calf, so we had a use for the beef. However, I didn't need a frozen pumpkin pie. It was the year we had so many butternut squashes from the garden, and I could have used them if I wanted a "pumpkin" pie. I've never been one to buy baked (or ready-to-be-baked) goods, unless I see an angel food cake marked down because it's been around awhile. Of course I buy the occasional cake mix, simply because the mix is cheaper than a cake made from scratch.
Looking at the contents of the box of food we got that day, it seemed to me as though a person could have bought similar items for the same price (or less) at the grocery store, especially if she took advantage of weekly specials. Still, there are people who buy lots of processed food, so the Angelfood thing might have worked well for them.
When we bought my Jersey cow, Bonnie, I felt we had paid a ridiculous price. But I wanted a healthy purebred Jersey cow in the worst way; not because we needed milk, but because I love Jerseys. As I recall, the people were asking $1,500 for her. I think they let us have her for $1,300. I had my lovely, gentle, beautiful Jersey cow, so I was happy.
Her first calf was a boy. He nursed her until he was a year old, then we took him to be butchered. We were amazed at how much meat he made! The only actual money we ever spent on him was the fee to have him butchered, which was over $200. We never bought grain for him at any time. Meanwhile, we were getting from one to two gallons of milk a week from Bonnie, more if I wanted it.
I'm fairly sure that if we were to figure how much Bonnie has given us in the way of food, she has darn near paid for herself.
With Bonnie's help, we eat cheaply. We've been eating taco soup and split pea soup for the last five or six days. Of course, we ate lasagna twice at Rena's house; the ground beef she used in it (and what I used in our taco soup) was courtesy of Bonnie-the-Jersey-cow's first son.
For breakfast we alternate between oatmeal and farina (Cream of Wheat). We have an occasional bowl of Mini-spooners, usually when Cliff sleeps so late that I'm starving, so I go ahead and eat.
Even in this year of lousy gardening, I don't have to spend a lot of bucks on food. For that, I am thankful. And guess what? I could still trim the budget even more if I had to. I wish I could say the same about gasoline.
When I go into the milking barn, I have to lock the door behind me or Bonnie opens the door and enters before I'm ready. It isn't that she is anxious to be milked. No, she just happens to know that she is going to get some sweet feed when she goes to the stanchion. Food is her primary motivator in life. In other words, she fits right in with us.
First you will see her opening the door. Then after I lock the door, she keeps on trying.
I spent some time yesterday watching shows about 9/11. Back in 2001, I recall leaving the TV off because I couldn't bear to watch any more footage showing what had happened. Now, enough time has passed so that I can take it in in small doses.
In 2001, I was keeping in touch with several of my old Internet chat room friends: Joanna was near Washington, DC, so of course she was shaken by the fact that the Pentagon was attacked. Maria was in Buffalo, New York, close enough to the World Trade Center that she felt the attack was right in her own back yard, so to speak (Maria, do you still read this mess? I have been trying to reach you by email). I was working at Kohl's distribution center when my associate supervisor made the rounds to tell all of us that a plane had hit World Trade Center. Cliff and I had spent the previous weekend in Arkansas, staying one night with another Internet friend (also a real-life friend) who had plans to fly to Texas on the morning of 9/11 and meet one of her daughters. Then the two of them were going to board a plane together and fly to Washington state and visit another daughter. So when I heard about a plane crashing into a building, my first thought was that my friend was flying that day. As it happened, she got stranded in Texas for a few days and eventually rented a car and drove home.
I know some people don't want to hear any more about all that mess that happened ten years ago. The wonderful thing is, they don't have to. You can change the channel or turn off the TV and computer and do other things. The main thing that motivates me to participate in Project 2,996 is the occasional comment like these: "Thank you for doing this for my friend" "Thank you for the personal, moving tribute; Christopher was a distant cousin that I never knew. Thanks to your comments, I now have some insight into what a wonderful person he was."
I am still home-bound with my cow, whose calf is perfectly happy to partake of the milk from the front teats, with an occasional hit on the two back ones. This has worked out well for Cliff, who feels he has an obligation to take me to see the Grand Canyon but would much rather stay home and work on his 1855 Oliver tractor. He's sandblasted and primed the hulking beast, and before you know it, it will look as though it came fresh from the factory, with bright Oliver-green paint, new decals and all.
Remember almost a month ago when we came home from the state fair and found Bonnie's calf had fallen into a canyon? Up until that day, Bonnie had a favorite shaded spot right at the western rim of that canyon where she would go to escape the heat. There is a large, grassy area at that side of the ditch that we call "the point". It has always been a choice grazing area for any animals living on our place. But since Bonnie's calf fell into the ditch, she has not been anywhere on the west side of that ditch! There's plenty of grazing in other places, but it can't be coincidence that she stays away from the area where she lost her baby for a few hours. She used to spend most of her time over there.
So, life goes on here; we are still having a string of perfect, autumn-like days that make a person happy to be alive. I have a feeling that if the weather holds, we will at least get in a motorcycle day trip in the next day or two.
As I mentioned in my last post, I am really getting sick and tired of Max, the calf, not taking more of Bonnie's milk. I took it upon myself when he was nursing to get on the other side of the cow so he wasn't bothered by my presence, peek under her belly, and watch him nurse. At one point I reached across under the cow and hid his favorite teat, a front one. He keeps that one very well emptied, and only takes a little from the back quarters. If I took away the front teat, he would move on to the back one on that side; however, I could tell that his nostrils were blocked by Bonnie's capacious udder when he was partaking of that back teat, making it a little difficult for him to breathe. Not impossible, just slightly difficult. So he's been choosing the easy route.
Hmmm; what to do, what to do.
Since I've been having to milk every morning anyhow, I decided to put Max in the stall overnight. That way I can milk from the cow's right side and he can have what's on her left. I've done this with Bonnie's previous calves when I needed milk. This plan, I thought, would help Stupid Max come to a realization that the milk in the back is every bit as good as the milk in the front, and maybe he'll soon become an equal opportunity sucker.
I awoke this morning to a bovine chorus which, loosely translated, is this: "Mommy, I'm dying of starvation!" "My baby, my baby, I want to feed you and I can't get in there with you!" All this repeated ad nauseam, resonating clearly through my open bedroom window.
I got out of bed, quickly drank a cup of coffee, grabbed my bucket, and went to the barn.
It was no trick getting Bonnie in the barn and in her stanchion; after all, there's food there. Once I had her secured I went out and slid the stall door open, turning Max loose. Now all he had to do was take two or three steps, see his mother through the open door of the barn, join her, and latch on.
He did step through once, but promptly left, bawling his head off.
This made Bonnie nervous, and she stomped around some and mooed an answer to her baby. He answered back, but didn't come near the open door.
When a cow gets nervous, she poops and pees. A lot, and often. So there I was snatching my bucket up and dodging excrement and urine every minute or so, pitchforking out the manure so I didn't have to have my bare feet in it as I milked, and resuming the milking procedure when the coast seemed clear. A couple of times I set the bucket on a stool and went out to try and guide the calf into the barn with his mother, to no avail. Finally, when I was almost done milking the two teats on my side, Max entered and I shut the door so he couldn't leave. And at long last, he discovered the breakfast bar.
I noticed that when he's really hungry, he doesn't care which teat he sucks on.
I'll repeat this whole procedure every morning until Max starts emptying the cow's udder on his own. I plan to make cheese with the two gallons of milk I brought in today. Last time I attempted making cheddar cheese, it turned out to be crumbly, similar to feta cheese. It's delicious, and we're using it in salads. I hope my efforts this time actually produce something like cheddar, but I won't be unhappy with more feta-type cheese.
Oh , due to the fact that I was outside before daylight, I heard something I had not heard in ages: Coyotes were howling! In the old days when I milked several cows and bottle-fed calves twice a day, I often did the chores in the predawn hours, and most mornings I'd hear coyotes yipping and howling. I had forgotten how they raise cain when they hear a train whistle.
Jody, on the left, is almost four months old. She's been weaned awhile and is eating lots of grain. The halter is on her because I am teaching her to lead. Actually, she seems to have been born knowing how to lead. Most calves, when you start trying to get them to follow you, will balk and refuse to move; some will even "sull up" as Cliff calls it, and fall on the ground with their eyes rolled back in their heads looking dead as a doornail. (Strange expression, that.)
But Jody only put up a struggle the first time I had a rope on her; since then, she has followed me anywhere I lead her. She does think it's fun to butt me, but I smack her with the end of the rope when she does that; she'll learn. Once the fly season is over, we'll have the vet out to remove her horns, vaccinate her for whatever he thinks is wise, and remove an extra teat. Yes, she has five. It likely wouldn't produce anything, but I want it gone.
I bought Jody because Bonnie, the cow in the background, refuses to give me a heifer calf.
Bonnie was perfect when we bought her, but at this point she is battle-scarred: Last year she got mastitis in two quarters, and one of those quarters quit producing entirely. This year the other quarter with mastitis is, for now, giving good milk. But once a cow has had mastitis in a quarter, you can bet it will show up again at some point. Bonnie also has a displaced hip, which causes her to limp somewhat. This problem was caused either by giving birth to those gigantic calves she always has, or else by one of those huge bulls she has to support when she's being bred. Anyhow, she's had this slight limp for at least two years. Cliff hadn't noticed it until I called his attention to it this year.
Because so many things can go wrong with a milk cow, I wanted a backup, so I bought Jody. She isn't pure Jersey, but she'll do in a pinch.
Right now Bonnie is keeping us tied down at home because her calf still isn't able to take all her milk. So I'm milking every morning. Hope is in sight, though; today I got less milk than I have been bringing in (or pouring out). Max's appetite must be increasing.
Although it's happened many times in my life, it always surprises me when an animal comes to me and lets me know there's a problem they can't solve alone. If you've been around animals much, you've experienced this, I'm sure. It's very touching, and in some ways, I consider it an honor.
Dogs seem to know they should go to their masters when they're hurt or ailing. Even cats, independent as they are, know when they're in need.
When I was fully nine months pregnant with my son, there was a very wild cat in the barn on my parent's place where we were renting a mobile home. She had new kittens, and I went out and looked at them sometimes. Mother Cat, of course, jumped out of the nest and kept her distance.
The second day I went out to see the kittens, a tomcat was in the middle of killing one of them. I was frantic with worry over this situation, and I took the three remaining kittens into the house. The mother followed me at a distance; I opened the door, got back from it and laid the kittens on the floor where she could see them, and she came on in. I then spread a blanket on the couch and put the kittens there; Mother Cat jumped up and started nursing them.
I was already past the due date for my baby to be born, and I realized I was going to soon be in the hospital for three days, and when I got home, I'd have my hands full with a baby; I hoped against hope the tomcat wouldn't come back again, and took the babies back to the barn that evening.
The next morning I opened the door to go outside and there was Momma Cat with two babies: she had carried them to me, to be taken care of. I told her I was sorry, that I just couldn't do it, and took them back to the barn. We had started with four kittens; now there were two.
Before the day was over, the tomcat murdered the other two kittens, and in my pregnant, hormonal, emotional state, I cried for hours. That cat asked me for help and I had denied her.
Several years ago we had a couple of Limousin cows. They were huge, beautiful cows, and they had lovely, big babies. However, I quickly found out they didn't want me messing with their calves. One of them had twins in 2004, and while the calves were newborn and easy to handle, I wanted to check and see whether they were male or female. That cow butted me down a hill fast enough to make my head spin. Not long ago I related this tale to a local farmer; he said his daughter raised some Limousin heifers for 4H, trained them to lead and showed them at fairs. They were absolute pets, he told me. "But you couldn't think about getting close to their calves."
Well, mine weren't pets. I'm not even sure they liked me.
However, when one Limousin cow's calf figured out how to get through the fence to the neighboring property and she couldn't follow, that cow bawled and bellowed until she got my attention, then followed me back to the house until I got some help. You can read the story in my old journal HERE.
So it was no surprise to me yesterday that Bonnie left her calf and came bawling to me; neither was it a surprise when I started walking toward the back pasture and she took the lead and led me straight to her baby. Animals know where to turn when they have no other place to go.
That's more than I can say for a lot of humans.
"This poor man called, and the Lord heard him; He saved him out of all his troubles." Psalm 34:6
Cliff and I went to the State Fair today. That's a story in itself. But after we got home and rested awhile, I figured I'd better go check on Bonnie and her baby, since this was their first day out in the big pasture together. As soon as I stepped outside I knew something was amiss, because there was Bonnie, without her calf, bawling her head off at me. I knew instantly that little Max had fallen into one of our many deep ravines.
Bonnie led me to the edge of a canyon (who said cows are stupid?) and started bellowing insistently. I heard her calf answer her from the pit.
I went to the other side of the gully where it isn't so steep, so I could assess the situation. Going down that steep slope I reminded myself that I have an artificial knee, and I hung onto brush and tree-roots for support. Finally I spotted the calf and knew there was no choice but to go get Cliff.
Yeah, I wasn't scaling THAT wall. I thought maybe Cliff could fashion some sort of sling out of an old blanket, put it around the calf's belly, and drag him out with a tractor.
Cliff followed me back to the ditch and pondered the mess.
He then decided that a sling wasn't the best idea. He said if we drove the calf back down the ditch a little way, we could probably help him climb up the slope where it wasn't straight up and down.
Bonnie the Jersey cow cheered us on from above, peering over the cliff and bellowing so loud and often, we couldn't think.
Cliff got the calf headed up that steep, slippery incline. At one point he (Cliff) couldn't get his footing, so he grabbed Max's tail with both hands and poor little Max pulled him the rest of the way up the hill, right through some thorn-bushes.
All's well that ends well.
A reader left a comment in which she wondered why Bonnie only has boys. Well, it's just like with humans: Each time a female is impregnated, there is a 50/50 chance the baby will be a boy. This has nothing to do with what sex their previous babies were, it's just the luck of the draw and the chance is the same every time... 50/50.
What Cliff and I can't figure out is why a Jersey cow, one of the smallest breeds of cattle, has such huge babies every single time. The last two times we would probably blame it on the breed of the bull she was mated with, but her first calf was pure, 100% Jersey. And he was huge, even though he was out of a first-calf heifer. A heifer's first calf is usually somewhat smaller than average.
Oh well, I guess it's OK as long as Bonnie lives to tell about it.
By the way, Max found where lunch is served. Don't worry about Bonnie's distressed appearance; she still hasn't gotten rid of the afterbirth, which is why her back is arched like that.
When I saw the big hooves, I knew it was another boy.
Cliff agrees with me that the calf weighs at least 80 pounds. This is her third calf, and they've all been huge boys.
During this awful heat wave we've had for the past couple of weeks, Bonnie spends all day every day beside my cabin in the woods. It must be the coolest place around. When the sun gets low in the west, she grazes her way toward the house, and when her belly is full, she lies down to chew her cud near Jody.
That's where I see her each morning at sunup. As I write this, it's 6:40 A.M. and Bonnie is headed back toward the cabin again, grabbing a bite of luscious pasture with every step.
Flies torture cattle and horses this time of year. Not just ordinary flies, but horseflies and face flies and horn flies that leave blood running where they've bitten. I can use spray that gives about ten minutes of relief to the poor cows, but nothing really keeps the flies off for very long. If Bonnie weren't providing us with milk for nine months of the year, we could use cattle ear tags that are effective in keeping flies away for about a month; but as it is, she suffers. They do get relief during nighttime hours, because the flies go away when it's dark.
I am so hoping Bonnie has a heifer this time; not just because I want a pet, but because if it's a heifer, it won't be such a big calf. Also, cows tend not to carry a heifer calf as long, which would help with the size of the calf. Ten days before her due date I'll be keeping Bonnie closer to the house, not allowing her to go to her daily cool spot by the cabin. There are huge gullies and canyons back there, and a staggering newborn would likely end up tumbling to the lowest point on our forty-two acres.
That's what happened with her first calf.
These animals have been standing in close proximity for at least two hours, since before daybreak. The thunder and lightning and rain have been intense. Each animal has a sheltered place where she could go, but then they wouldn't be together.
Bonnie and Jody aren't related. It's just that, in times of stress, the herd instinct kicks in (this is our entire herd). An electric fence separates them, but that doesn't stop them from being a herd. They turn away from the prevailing winds and simply ride out the storm together.
I can almost hear them singing "Stand By Me".
Perhaps this means I'm getting back to my normal self. Not that I've ever been all that normal.
A week ago I was considering letting Jody, the (former) bottle calf, nurse my Jersey cow, Bonnie, for two weeks. What a ridiculous idea that was.
The cow would have had to be dried up after two weeks to prepare for her baby due in August, so it would have only been for that two-week period. Most likely that would have been just enough time for Jody to get used to nursing a cow instead of a bottle, and possibly would have made her more difficult to wean. So I fed her the last of the milk replacer and then started giving her all the calf feed she could eat, which by the way is quite a bit for a little heifer.
We've had some frequent rains, and the pen Cliff and I had constructed for her in our front yard was beginning to get pretty muddy and stinky. So we took that pen down and moved her to the small lot behind the barn, where she has more room; she can go inside the barn for shelter there.
Now we're eyeing an area behind our house that has some excellent grazing for a growing calf. We're considering putting up an electric fence (she needs to be trained to an electric fence anyhow), moving her little hutch out there for shelter, and letting her graze to her heart's content.
Cliff is a nervous wreck as retirement draws near: He will work tomorrow and Thursday, take a vacation day Friday, work Monday through Thursday of next week and take a vacation day that Friday. And that will be the end of his job career and the beginning of a new adventure.
A week from tomorrow (Wednesday) I will see the orthopedist and hopefully be done with going to therapy three days a week.
From the time we brought Jody home six weeks ago, I've had the intentions of halter-breaking her. Bonnie isn't broke to lead with a halter and rope, and it hasn't been a big deal; but sometimes it's really nice if you can lead your cow where you'd like her to be... for instance, to a different pen. Or maybe you'd like to let her graze the grass in the unfenced yard. Or, if she fails to breed, it might be handy to be able to lead her up the road a mile to the local butcher shop.
We looked for a calf halter for a long time, and finally found one at Orcheln's. I knew it was far too big for my little heifer, but Cliff put added holes in it so it would fasten up tighter.
Jody is afraid of strangers, and I was afraid to compromise my new knee by trying to hogtie a calf and get a halter on her, so we hadn't begun to halter-break her yet.
Today we took Bonnie's son, Clyde, to the butcher shop. Now, dairy cows should be allowed from six weeks to two months dry, to rest up for the next baby. If we dried her up today, it would be two months.
I will run out of milk replacer tomorrow, and I was going to wean Jody, since she's eating so much grain; she would be fine with that, once she forgot what the bottle was for.
But yet, just think how much good it would do her to have some good, rich Jersey milk twice a day for two weeks. She would probably gain weight like crazy! And let's not even talk about how happy she would be to be sucking on real teats instead of a rubber nipple!
So this evening, with nobody around to help me, I decided to put the too-large halter on Jody and see if I could get her to the little lot behind the barn.
Here's how it went, but believe it or not, I got her there!
I already had Bonnie in the barn eating, so I led dragged Jody into the barn and introduced her to a teat.
That part was easy; she grabbed right on. I think I heard her humming, "Oh, my Mama, to me you are so wonderful..."
Bonnie kicked at her a couple of times in protest, then went back to eating. I guess she knew that wee little thing at her side wasn't 782-pound Clyde. (Yes, that's how much he weighed when we checked him in at the butcher shop today.)
I went to the other side, got my bucket, and started milking "my" two teats.
And folks, that's as eventful as it got.
When Bonnie seemed to have no more milk, I dragged Jody out of the barn into the lot. I drove Bonnie to the other door that lets out into the big pasture and shut the door behind her. Then I went out and dragged Jody back to her pen.
If the two of them bond, I may let Jody run at Bonnie's side for two weeks. I will have to watch closely for scours (diarrhea) because Jody isn't used to that much milk, especially rich Jersey milk. However, she's old enough that the danger isn't all that great, even if she does have a problem at first. Besides, I do have some pills in my possession for that problem.
Hey, this may be the best way to halter-break a baby calf: Let them know there is MILK at the end of the journey!
It was windy yesterday (Sunday) and although we heard lots of motorcycles going past on the nearby highway, we opted not to join them; we had a good ride Saturday.
After we had a nice stir-fry for dinner, Cliff went out to make a way for the cows to get in the new pasture, without letting the horses in. Horses founder if they have too much to eat, so they certainly don't need the lush spring grass. I went out to help, although it surprises me how much I'm limited by my arthritic knees.
This is the entryway Cliff made for the cows over a year ago, on another new pasture. The area we turned them on yesterday is the part you see on the left, the plowed ground in the picture.
Here's the project, half-done. Cliff runs electric fence above the entryway so the tall horses won't even try to get in; if they did, they'd be in for a rude shock.
I had to coax Bonnie through the entrance the first time because she's used to electric fence going across that spot; but once she was in, it didn't take her long to find the tender grass. Clyde hasn't gotten up nerve enough to enter yet, but eventually he will. It took Sir Loin three days to follow his mom onto the new grass, back in November of 2009. Bonnie ate her fill, exited the enclosed area to be with her son, and then returned to graze. We had wondered if she'd find her way out without help, but she is a smart little cow. She was in and out several times yesterday evening.
Yesterday morning, the first of my daffodils finally decided to bloom.
So did the hyacinths. It's about time!
Today Cliff is taking me to the Social Security office so I can show them our marriage license as proof I'm married to him. They have to see my marriage license before I can have the raise I'm supposed to get when Cliff retires (spousal benefits or something like that). My goodness, is it possible we will have been married for forty-six years in June?
