Bluffing cows

2010 was a good learning year for me. Like I’ve said before, Clayton was working nights, so during the week the brunt of responsibility for feeding the cows fell to me. I had some fun experiences and definitely grew in my skills and courage. I tagged 5 or 6 calves on my own, and each time was such a rush. Good times.

Enter 2011. I was pregnant (hooray!). Hence, I was somewhat limited in the things I could do to help with chores. I still carried water jugs when the horses’ water was frozen over, and fed the horses every morning, but I’d been doing that since before pregnancy and my body was used to it. Lifting 75lb hay bales, however, well, I don’t think my doctor would have approved. And Clayton and Joel wouldn’t have let me if I tried. My job was pretty intense: driving the truck. Yep, that’s right. I would back the truck up to the haystack, park it, and then . . . sit there while Clayton loads the hay. After the hay was loaded, I’d drive to the cow field and drive around while Clayton unloaded the hay. That is my normal job, even when I’m not pregnant, so I guess there’s no big change there. Let me tell you though, bumping around in the truck driving through the field when you’re 8 months pregnant feels a whole lot different than bumping around the truck when you’re not. It’s a wonder that my child wasn’t born with Shaken Baby Syndrome. Just kidding. I did crawl under a few barb wire fences, chasing calves, and I also assisted with three calf pullings. In fact, Clayton and Joel and some other family comedians would joke that when I went into labor, they would pull out the calf puller and chains and pull my baby out right there in the squeeze chute. When they made these hilarious jokes, I’d pretend to laugh, and then turn away so that they couldn’t see my entire body shudder. I definitely have some new-found sympathy for cows in labor, and especially for cows whose calf had to be pulled out.

And I’m sure I could have helped with some tagging and been just fine, but I decided to take it easy and let the boys do all the hard work. Clayton and Joseph had a “calf catcher”, which is basically just like a shepherd’s crook, that they would use to hook a calf on the leg, catch it, and tag it. It was a fairly effective way to catch the older calves that hadn’t yet been tagged, but after they had caught 3 or 4 calves on a Saturday morning, the herd was fairly riled up, convinced that the boys were torturing their babies. After that day, whenever they saw the calf catcher, the mamas would hurry off with their calves, nervous that another torture session was underway.

One day, after I’d been griping about how worthless I’d been feeling about not helping out more with the chores, Clayton tried to help me feel better. There was a new calf that needed tagging. Clayton said that he would hold the calf down for me, and all I had to do was slip the tag onto its ear. Piece of cake, right? We walk quietly over to the calf, who is laying a short distance away from where his mama and the rest of the herd are eating the hay that we’ve just delivered to them. Clayton quickly grabs the calf in a bear hug, feels between its legs to determine the gender (bull calves get tagged on the right ear, heifer calves on the left ear), and instructs me which ear to insert the tag. Now, if you’re imagining the calf calmly laying there while Clayton holds it, you’re imagining the wrong ranch. This calf wants to get away from scary old Clayton, and is thrashing about trying to get away, and crying for his mama. I can’t get a grip on his ear because he’s thrashing about so wildly. And hey, I’m 7 or 8 months pregnant. My usual bravado and boldness has been replaced by demure timidity to protect my unborn child. So I’m not being very brave, but am kind of waffling about, trying not very hard to get a hold of the ear of this very wiggly calf.

In the meantime . . . not only has the worried mama cow come over to protect her poor baby, but along with her comes about half of the herd, determined to help their own kind protect this innocent baby from the horrible humans. Picture this: Clayton, on the ground, wrestling wildly with the calf. Me, timidly standing to the side. And about 10 or 15 full-grown cows, surrounding us, mooing wildly, and making all kinds of threatening gestures at Clayton.

I wimp out even more, because I sure don’t want to get trampled by a bunch of crazed cows! And I don’t want the father of my unborn child to be killed on the ground in front of me, which seems to be about to happen. I yell to Clayton to just let the dang calf go, and he yells at me to hurry and tag the calf. I yell to Clayton that there’s no way I’m going to touch that dang calf because the cows will kill me if I do. He yells right back at me to hurry up and tag the calf. We’re yelling because the cows that are surrounding us are mooing really loud and if we didn’t yell, we couldn’t hear each other. We’re definitely not yelling because we’re angry. Right? After some strong “encouragement” from Clayton, I finally cowboy-up, dart in as quick as I can, grab the stupid ear of the stupid calf, and tag the dang thing. Then I chuck the tagging gun in Clayton’s direction, and take off at a quickstep for the safety of the truck.

Of course by this time I am crying, dang pregnancy hormones, and when Clayton catches up to me, unfazed from this seemingly life-threatening ordeal, he thinks I’m upset because he was yelling. In turn, I tell him that I thought he was going to be pulverized and that this is why I was so upset. He puts him arm around me and says, “Oh, there was nothing to be afraid of. Those cows are all bluff.”

That was bluffing? Boy, I’d hate to be around when the cows are telling the truth.

My cute and chubby pregnant self