Calving 2021

Calving season officially started on the tenth of May, and as I write this, on the third of June, we are just over seventy percent done. So far, things have gone pretty smoothly, which is a most welcome change from last year’s pulling, transplanting, CPRing, and all that tomfoolery. We’ve only had to kidnap one calf to transplant, and have found mothers for the two separate twins we had.

The most significant difference has been with the first-time calvers. Last year’s heifers, the ones tagged with the letter ‘F’ (very fitting) were trouble from start to finish. We weren’t just pulling them either; we were having to revive them once they were born, help them suck, make their mothers love them, make their mothers stop trying to kill them because they loved them too much, and replace ones that had died. All of this we struggled with for a prolonged sixty-day season, the first third bringing only a handful calves. For whatever reason, the ‘F’ year of heifers were a lackadaisical bunch of breeding stock all around. Even now, the ‘F’ heifers have been cropping up as troublesome out in the big pastures. One day we went out to tag and found three ‘F’ cows mothering one calf. We went looking and found some lonely calves in nearby bushes. After we got them together, then separated into pairs, they sorted themselves out. In another pasture, we tagged one ‘F’s calf only to find her with her actual calf later on. She had been very fond of both, but definitely more committed to the second. The first calf actually belonged to some old cow who thought she’d be smart by not letting on that she had a calf. I guess she wasn’t prepared for those stupid ‘F’ heifers either.

Standing in blessed contrast to that are the ‘G’ heifers. Of the sixty that are done calving already, we only had to pull three, and two of these would have come out themselves if not for having a leg back. There are only twenty-one left to go, and the 45-day breeding season they had means they’ll be done in about two weeks! This calving lark sure is nice when it all goes off without a hitch!

Most of the hitches in our calving giddyups are coming from the cow pastures. Those old goats ought to be ashamed of themselves, causing us more trouble than the nooby heifers.

In the northernmost pasture, the cows started off calving in a bush pasture. This pasture has a roughly 10x10 rail ‘pen’ in the corner, which is open on both sides. There’s supposed to be panels in the openings so that it could hold a cow, but panels have gone strolling away from there in the past, so now we make do without them. That pen has been on its last leg for quite some time, and now its leg is busted. One of the end posts is broken, so one side of rails just sort of lays there. Did we fix it? We did not. Since we have to back a trailer up to that opening anyway, we just tie the trailer door open to that broken post and it’s as good as new! It’s quite the gibbled system, but so far the cows have been fooled, so I guess it’s sufficient.

The first cow that needed it was a nice young thing that had a set of dead twins. Fortunately, she followed one of her calves right in to the pen, then only took a little cajoling to hop into the trailer. She was the one we stole a calf for. We stole the calf from a cow that’s been in the cull pen for a while now. She’s a nice enough cow, but does tend to run us up fences when we’re nearby.

The next one that needed the pen was another set of twins; these ones were alive! Since we only check the cows every second day, it’s not often that we find a cow still with her twins. When we find twins, it’s generally just a small calf, wandering around and looking hungry. It’s not that cows don’t want two calves; they just can’t count well at all. One will have a meal, then lay down to sleep and the cow will often wander off to have the other one. Even if she has them in the same spot, she’ll eventually wander off with one while the other sleeps.

It was just lucky that we found these ones, too. We had seen the cow had just calved as we checked the herd, but we didn’t want to tag it, as it was really fresh. It just so happened that we rode past that cow again in pursuit of another calf to tag, and she was licking a new fresh calf. I was able to bring the cow and one calf up to the corral as Dad got the trailer set up, and we managed to load her. It was nip and tuck in the last few moments with that cow. She was starting to lose maternal affection for her calf, and we barely got her into the little corral square. Once she was in there, she threatened us by putting her chin over the fence. When cows put their chins over fences, they are doing the calculations necessary to determine whether or not they can jump the fence. And once they successfully jump a fence, they will likely become addicted to this method of escape. The corral fences are pretty high, but when I say “successfully jump a fence”, I just mean success in the sense that matters to the cow, which is “I was on that side of the fence, and now I am on this side of the fence.” Cows do not tally up collateral damage. They do not care if they leave the fence in shambles or even hurt themselves in the process. They are very goal-oriented that way.

Anyway, by the threefold fortune of high corral fences, her calf being in the trailer already, and good old-fashioned pleading to God, we got the cow loaded and went back for her other twin.

Once we got the cow back home, we found out just how lucky we were to have her captured, as she went downright spinny. She was doing laps and making us do laps, so we decided to just bottle feed the calves to give them a good start. As it turned out, a cow out at the north pasture had a deformed calf shortly after, so we brought her home and gave her one of the twins. Once everything was paired up nicely, we took the awol lady out to the cull pasture. She settled right down and now you’d never know she has it in her to be that way.

On one of the occasions when that cow ran us up the fence, we were able to clearly see her mother’s number written over top of hers on her tag. Genetics will out. Her mother was going to get a calf transplant a couple years ago, but went absolutely nutso in the corrals, too. Nice quiet old cow, until she just wasn’t.

We didn’t end up giving her a calf.

It is now seventeen days later than when I started writing. I encourage you not to question my writing process. I’ve been down that road and it is fruitless.

Anyway.

We only have eighteen cows left to calve, and none of them are ‘G’ heifers, because the first-calvers are done!! The trouble tally for the eighty-one ‘G’s are: one pair deceased after assistance (big calf with leg back), one calf pulled with leg back, two calves pulled due to size, and one deformed calf, replaced with an orphan calf. The heifers were all excellent mothers, and the calves very lively! I think Dad’s about ready to send the bull breeder a bouquet of flowers. It was the best calving season we’ve had in my memory, that’s for sure.

Some twins have come in and gone out a few times since I started this; we had to get a bag of milk replacer, as it’s just so much easier than milking a cow or bringing one in to support an extra calf. One little fella is left, being bottlefed currently. It’s a tiny little thing that seems to be blind in one eye. If the cows finish calving and we don’t need it, we’ll probably toss it out with the ‘G’ heifers, as most tend to not care when any old calf steals a meal.

Now we’re just coasting on the slow trickle of these final calves; the season is on its way out!

Since father’s day has just passed, I’d like to congratulate mine on surviving most of another calving season! This next bit, I write directly to him...

I’m sorry about that time my heifer boosted you over the fence and you landed in the mud on the other side. She’s a purebred, so we’re just going to have to adjust to her ways. On the bright side, you did land in safe territory, and the mud did indicate we were getting a much-needed rain. Also, sorry about that other cow of mine that chased you around the sapling you were using as a barrier. She was from the same cow family, so that’s on me. However, it wasn’t really my fault that you grabbed the calf in a poplar bush that had no trees bigger than two inches around to hide behind. I commend your bravery in holding on to it even as its mother was flattening your tree.

I think I paid my debt that time I had to jump off and grab the calf in the buck brush. Your determination at that time inspired me to keep hold of the calf in my moment of trial.

However, your yelling at me to “get the rope on it, already!” did not inspire me. That would be like if I threw you in the water and started yelling at you, “stop drowning, already!” (and believe me, I was pretty eager to conduct this lesson for you). Solid assessment of required action it may be, but helpful it is not. I understand that your horse is green and you couldn’t get him near to keep the cow off my back, but my mind was not much more stable than your horse’s, and adding your bellering to the calf’s and the cow’s was just not the thing to quicken the process.

Now, you may have wondered why I grabbed the rope and put it around myself, and thought I could use clarification on which being I should actually be putting the rope on.

Let me explain. The adrenaline that should have been fuelling super-speed and super-quick-thinking actually got rerouted to the area of my brain that does the opposite of that stuff, so I just got super-bamboozled and super-uncoordinated instead. I super-misinterpreted the reality presented to my five senses and concluded that the rope was already around me, so when I went to ‘take it off’ I was actually putting it on.

So yeah, that’s what went on there. Totally understand why it would be frustrating to watch, but this is not muscle memory for me yet, so cut me some slack. Also, there were some basic mathematics working against me because x>y, where x = the length of the calf from the kicky back foot I gripped to the bellering head that escaped me, and y = the length of my one unoccupied arm.

That’s not even accounting for other variables like the rope being around me and the cow almost stepping on me. And the threefold bellering. Let’s not forget the threefold bellering that was short-circuiting me.

Anyway, I did eventually catch it, but the moral of the story is, buck brush is even less effective to hide behind than a poplar sapling.

Also, I’ve gotten over it and am no longer planning to push you in the water; happy Father’s Day.

I mentioned that Dad was riding a green horse; that’s because we finally found a four-year-old. He’s a big grey gelding that was started and rode for a round-up or two. He’s fairly quiet, but sensitive about some things. Dad is still getting a feel for him, and seems to vacillate between liking him and not.

When we got him, I asked my Nephew 2 what he thought his name should be. Nephew 2’s first option was his own first and middle name. I told him that would be too confusing.

His second option is usually to offer the names of close relatives or just any object his eyes land on, but not this time. This time, he stared thoughtfully at the horse, then said with a toothy grin, “Mmmmmmexicooo!”

So Mexico it is, I guess.

Meanwhile, I have been riding Barb again. Barb continues to impress us with her flakey ways. One day, she will be just the handiest ranch horse around, and the next day she’ll be sneaking in the cheapest ways to get away with things. Some days, she’s both ways. Like the time we were getting that cow in that had dead twins. Barb worked excellently for dragging the dead calf along to the corral, bellering cow in pursuit. Just walked along with her head down like a steady Eddie. Until, once we were in sight of the corral, Dad and Mexico trotted ahead to get the trailer set up. They were only fifty feet ahead of us when, all of a sudden, that dead calf was the scariest thing in earth.

Convenient.

Earlier this year, Barb was acting up when I had the advantage of being able to take her to a patch of grass at home and just put her to work, since we weren’t doing a job at the time. My nephews were watching and Nephew 1 was able to really sum up Barb:

“Wow! That horse has some nice moves... and on two feet, too!”

That’s about what I was dealing with when we were dragging the dead calf in, so I had to drop the rope.

Barb is a pretty brave little mare, and certainly not stupid. It is no coincidence that the only time she spooks, it is in the direction of home or the trailer. I deeply resent this behaviour of hers. The only time she has been genuinely scared was when she spotted buffalo in the neighbouring pasture. I didn’t think she’d mind them too much, as they were a few hundred yards away, so I stopped to let her see them. She didn’t notice them at first until they moved.

Then her head came up.

Her ears pricked forward so tensely, they were almost touching.

Then the herd of twenty or so buffalo moved off into a bush.

According to Barb, the only thing scarier than seeing buffalo is not seeing buffalo. She was rattled, and I had to jump off quick to lead her safely down the steep hill to where Dad and Mexico were.

That pretty much ruined the rest of the day for me and Barb. She was glaring into every bush and spooking at every little moment, positive the buffalo were going to be coming for us. In her defence, they had sidled rather suspiciously into the bush, back on the hilltop. If they really were after us, she would have been the only one prepared to run for her life.

Perhaps mares just prioritize self preservation more. Geldings have nothing to contribute to their species genetically, so they’re easier to get along with.

Anyway, when Barb is being good, she is great to ride. She has a heck of a power walk, and such an amazing extended trot, we rarely even need to lope. Angry mother cows have rubbed up on her, and she stands her ground, nipping at their heads. She can turn herself inside out when she’s working a cow, and she facilitates my roping skills by tracking right up on calves so I can just drop a loop on them.

On her good days, I wonder how we’d manage without her.

On her bad days, I wonder how much dog food she’d yield.

She sure keeps me on my toes, anyway.

I thought I’d end things there, but we had an exciting day recently, so I’ll have to include it, too.

Breeding season isn’t supposed to start around here until August first, which gets the calving season rolling around May tenth. But as we were checking one pasture of cows this week, we discovered a stumbling block to our plans.

A big white Charolais bull.

He emerged from the bush as we were tagging a calf. It was fortunate that he came out when he did, since we very easily could have missed him, only doing a quick run through the cows. I heard him calling and was thinking to myself that we must have a very masculine-sounding cow around, but then Barb saw him. Barb is accustomed to black cattle and tolerant of red cattle; when that big white thing rattling out of the willows, she was bending her neck right around to see behind herself. When I looked around to see what she was perturbed by, I became even more perturbed than she.

We moved towards the bull a bit, trying to see any sort of brands or tags to identify it. He was nervous of the horses, so we didn’t push it, but let him back in with the cows and just kept the cows all together in a bunch. I was left to keep the herd there (but not let the bull get too friendly, if you know what I mean) while Dad phoned for Mom, then trotted up the fence to make sure it was still standing in the direction we figured the bull came from. It was a fairly safe bet where the bull came from because there is only one neighbouring pasture (the other adjacent land is either our own or farm fields), and said pasture contained two other bulls. The other big white Charolais and his companion big red Limousine were in the corner that got them closest to our herd, and they were trumpeting wistfully away there, probably asking their wayward buddy for tips on how he found his way to our cows.

Mom was on her way with tranquilizer, the medi-dart bow and arrow, and a few phone numbers, so Dad met her at the gate to the pasture.

They contacted the neighbour and he confirmed that they were his father’s bulls. He came out to the pasture with his side-by-side and he and Dad attempted to push the bull out of a nearby gate in the corner of the pasture.

In a short time, it was abundantly clear that that plan was not going to work. The bull agreed to go out about fifty yards from the cows, but then displayed both his athleticism and knowledge of trickery to push back to the herd in a beautiful maneuver including a dead stop, a head duck, and a flat-out gallop. The quad and side-by-side didn’t have a prayer.

Tranquilizer it was.

Neighbour went back to his place for a horse and a trailer while we settled the herd and bull and set about to tranq him. Unlike the attempt to push the bull out of the herd, this method would require finesse.

Dad warmed up his sneaky feet.

Drew a dose of sleepy juice into the dart.

Pumped air into the arrow.

Loaded the arrow onto the bow.

He was ready.

Just like it says in the Bible, Genesis 10:9, “Like Nimrod, a mighty hunter before the Lord.”

It really says that, Dad. It's a compliment.

Anyway, I had gathered the herd up tight and the bull was calmly watching me at a distance, surrounded by ladies. He didn’t notice Dad’s head poke up high to get a good look at his target. Didn’t notice that little gopher bob back down, crouching as he parted the cows to get near the bull’s rear.

The dart thwacked pleasantly (for us, anyway) into the bull’s rump. The drugs shot in and the arrow fell out, just like the infomercials advertise. The bull didn’t even register what hit him; he just weaved back into the cow herd.

His steps became heavier.

His hooves dragged on the ground more.

He began to drool.

And then he laid down for a nap.

Dad got two ropes onto him and looped them through as makeshift halters. Neighbour arrived with his trailer and backed up to the bull’s head. He got his horse out and ready, then he pulled one rope on his side of the trailer, and I pulled another on my side. He was using his horse and I was just using the trailer windows to tie the rope to, because Barb offers a wide margin for error that I wasn’t willing to contribute to the mess.

Anyway, we got his head pulled in as far as we could, then Dad had to give him the antidote to the tranquilizer, because you can’t just pull a tonne-and-a-half dead weight into a trailer.

Though we had the ropes tight before the antidote kicked in, it’s no surprise that a mature bull could coax a lot more slack out of them than we did. I wish I could wake up from a dead slumber with that amount of clear determination. That thing woke up, sat back, and got his head out of the trailer enough to twist himself around the corner. Then, it was just a matter of seconds before he pulled the rope against the trailer door’s latch and cut it. Neighbour couldn’t hold the bull alone, so he let his rope slide out of the trailer and we regrouped a few yards from the door. Somehow, Neighbour got his rope out of the trailer and was standing there holding the bull by it still. I didn’t see how this good trick was executed, as I was in the other side, ditching the busted rope and getting on Barb.

I did not get on Barb because I am an indefatigable optimist, but rather because I am a fatigable runner. One thing Barb is pretty good at is getting the heck out of Dodge when things get hairy. I was counting on her to do just that for me when I rode up on our new situation.

Neighbour had a good, willing horse that was trying his best to hold onto the bull, but one good horse is no match for a stubborn, mature bull.

Not to spoil the story, but one good horse plus Barb is also no match for a stubborn, mature bull.

Dad pulled out his sneaky feet once again and very dextrously flipped another rope onto the bull. The situation was dire. This was to be my rope.

I got dallied on and alongside the neighbour and we made a light attempt to pull the bull back towards the trailer. After a light strain on the horses, the bull lunged forward and away from the trailer, and Neighbour and I darted ahead to stay with him. Any hope of trailer loading was dead. Plan C was to drag him to the gate.

So, when you dally (wrap) a rope onto a saddle horn, you do so on your right side. Maybe if you’re left-handed, you wouldn’t, but I’m just trying to explain the reality of my right-handed neighbour and myself.

We were dallied on our right sides, and the bull was behind us. Until he wasn’t.

When he wasn’t behind us, he was choosing to lunge ahead and to our left. That meant the rope was being pulled tight right into us, sweeping both of us off our saddles.

I mean, give us a little bit of credit; we didn’t succumb right off the bat. We were able to turn our horses at the last second and stay afloat the first time the bull did us dirty like that. The bull would lunge ahead, we would race to keep the ropes out from under our horses, then the bull would pull us sideways and stop, at which point, we’d scramble to correct the things that had gone awry already. At one point, neighbour came fully off his horse and his dallies were tangled so they couldn’t come off. I held the bull for a moment while he got straightened out.

“Are you good?” he asked, as he struggled to collect the mess.

“I mean, yeah, as long as he’s just standing there!” I replied. I felt pretty much useless. Like when my Dad’s friend went goose hunting with him, then asked him accusingly, “How am I supposed to hit anything if you don’t shoot??” How was I supposed to hold that bull when he wasn't dallied on?

Anyway, narrowly escaped that crises.

Barb did pretty good by Barb standards, except for that time she lost her mind being asked to pull as she went up a hill. She had a little conniption and I had to let go of my dallies to get her back.

“Did ya lose your dally?” Neighbour asked.

“Nope. Lost my horse.” I replied.

All things considered, we got farther than we should have.

So, about a hundred yards.

That was plenty of time for the bull to connect the dots on how easy it was to manipulate us. We gave him one final pull and he responded with a great lunge ahead and then a solid run off to the side.

When the animal you’re trying to pull flips you the bird on his way past your horse, it is approximately the right time to pop your dallies and throw the rope away.

I have written before on how good I am throwing the rope away, and I am dead serious. Like, if you’re going to be an absolute joke at roping stuff, it’s still important to know how to get yourself out of trouble. When in doubt, pop your dallies, folks. Pick another hill to die on; that one is littered with fingers and thumbs, broken saddle trees, and lamed horses. Do you remember that awesome loop that one cowboy made right before he rope-burned his thumb off? Neither do I, because all I remember is how his thumb fell off.

Anyway, lecture aside, that bull was gonzo. We made a fleeting attempt at a rally, thinking we could use his momentum to ease him towards the gate. That was Plan D, I guess, but it was more wishful thinking. I tried to cut him off at the pass, and he threatened to push right under my horse. I thought he was bluff, and almost got into trouble, which was another lesson in safety. If you’re playing a game of chicken with a bull, you should immediately stop playing that game of chicken with a bull.

Neighbour grabbed another rope and made a valiant final effort to run after the bull and rope him (so, Plan E?). They went over a sharp little hill nearby. We all stopped to listen, because we knew there was a large slough on the other side, but didn't know if Neighbour knew. Instead of hearing a splash, we saw the bull running right back towards us.

At this point, I would say the antidote had fully counteracted the tranquilizer. The bull took a final charge at Neighbour, gave me a chilling glare from the safe distance I was maintaining, then trotted off to rejoin the cows, who had dispersed away from all the action.

A phone call was made to Neighbour's Parents, and they joined us for Plan F.

Plan F is such an appropriate name that I’ll conclude with it.

Plan F made a tentative effort to reason with the bull using side-by-sides and chop pails. Plan F was mostly staged around a thick willow bush that the bull had taken refuge in, only emerging to run the horse off.

The sun nearly set on Plan F, but a final conclusion was reached. A five cent solution. The safest possible ending to the seven-hour fiasco.

Neighbour executed Plan F.

And the bull, too.

Hopefully our actual breeding season kicks off a little more smoothly, but for now we’ll focus on getting these last few cows calved out.