The Mad Cow Chronicles--Say Open

Calf tagging is a major part of our calving ritual. Soon after birth, each calf gets a quick ear-piercing and a green or yellow tag. Our tag colors are different from our neighbors', which makes strays easy to identify. In addition, each cow has a number, and each calf gets a tag to match. It’s a simple and effective way to keep track of which kid belongs to which mother. I’m surprised WalMart hasn’t tried it. Calf tagging has a high potential for mad cow encounters. We prefer to tag calves while they’re still wobbly enough to catch on foot. Generally, that’s within the first twenty four hours, unless they’re a Longhorn. Then it’s before he dries off. We like to tag calves from the pick-up. When our cows see the pick-up, they think, “Lunch!” When our cows see a horse, they think it’s time to pack up the kid and go. With the proliferation of badger holes in our fields, chasing anything down with a horse and a rope is downright dangerous. Surviving a mad dash through the holes and rocks is only the first half of the battle. Once the calf is caught, there's only me, the cow, the calf, and the horse out in the middle of nothing. Not the ideal situation should a mad cow incident develop. Horses aren’t big fans of mad cows. Their instinct is to vacate the area as soon as possible. They don’t really care if I come along. Mounting a horse that’s running sideways while a cow grinds snot into my ribcage would be a challenge if I were wearing a track suit, let alone Carhart coveralls, long underwear and insulated boots. The pick-up, on the other hand, usually stays put. It offers multiple escape options: bail into the cab, jump into the box, dive underneath. With enough motivation, ranchers have even been known to execute a Bo Duke slide across the hood in full winter attire. A few days ago, my husband, dad and son headed over west to check the cows and tag the new calves. The boy is four. He mostly goes along on these missions to scale down the amount of damage he can do to his grandmother’s house in any given day. Not to mention his grandmother’s nerves. The calf tagging was going well until they came across a precocious little heifer that jumped up and tried to escape. My husband went after her on foot. The pursuit took him a good thirty yards from the pick-up. The instant he got his hands on the calf, the cow let loose with one of those deep-throated bellows that only a mother can produce. She shook her head, blew some snot, and would have pawed dirt if it weren't frozen solid. Seeing a mad cow encounter in the making, my dad turned to jump into the pick-up and roar to the rescue. The boy flashed a toothy grin through the closed window of the locked door. “Say open, Grandpa!”