Thirty-Seven and Devon

When Phil picked up the cows in Vermont yesterday, he left the farm around 9am. Since Google Maps said the trip would take 13 hours, we figured 14 hours minimum. (He had left home at 10pm Thursday, and slept a few hours in a rest stop. He reached Enosburg Falls, VT, just a few miles from the Canadian border, around 6pm on Friday, after a full day of driving. For security reasons, I tried to not mention his absence too blatantly. But he was working hard and sleeping little.)

He called before I went to bed to say, "Don't wait up. The lights on the trailer keep going out, and I've had to pull over four times already in order to try to get the wiring fixed. I hope to be home around 7am."

I woke at 6:30, eagerly anticipating the soon arrival of the cows. I did morning chores and started on the backlogged dishes. And waited.

I admired the pink buds that are breaking out all over—maybe those are the redbuds? I've only seen them in the fall, with their lovely heart-shaped leaves.



About the time we would have left for church (10am), Phil and cows drove down the road. We clapped and cheered! We could just see horn tips through the trailer slats.

I hoped that he had taken a few hours off to sleep. But, no. He had pulled over twice more, and finally figured out the wiring. Several hours of electrical wiring in the middle of the night in a strange state is not the ideal birthday celebration, but Phil managed it.

We finally got the truck backed up to the new fence. We had to adjust the electric strand, and while we got the details together, the sheep went to investigate the smell of the newcomers.



When we finally opened the door, no cows emerged. I have read that cattle don't see in color; maybe the difference between a dark trailer and a bright world was too great a contrast.

Phil tried tugging on their halters to get them out. No go.



I asked if we should just take off their halters and let them go. "I don't know how I would catch them again to dose them with their homeopathic stress-reliever." Indeed, without lead ropes, how would we catch them?

He let go altogether and stood back. First one cow jumped nimbly down. . .


. . . then the other two emerged with a RUSH. One stumbled to her knees, but quickly recovered and all three stood on the far side of the pasture.



Incredibly, the animals sorted themselves by type and then by family within type. The babydolls were separate from Ashley and Acorn and progeny; Annabelle and kids were separate from Chrystal. Chrystal acted aggressive. . .



. . . but Fern, the Milking Devon born in 2008, lowered her substantial horns, and Chrystal backed off.



If the cows advanced, the other animals scattered. Imagine animals fleeing from a forest fire—it felt like that.



But now, how to get the halters and leads off? Phil sprayed them with a homeopathic Arnica remedy, to remove stress, and tried to casually approach.



The six of us left an exhausted Phil alone to deal with stressed animals and drove to church, to get there about five minutes before service ended. At least Phil was able to get a good nap.

Back at the farm, the children opened their Easter presents and looked for Easter eggs in the woods. (Even Joe found some!)



I planted four rhubarb plants I bought, all dried out, at the hardware store yesterday.

Then I headed in to visit the longed-for cows. I love them. When they poop, I think, "Great! Give the soil the microbes from your gut!"

Even better, when the cows come near enough to smell my hands, I admire the beads of "sweat" on their nose. Healthy cows always have an exudate on their nose. Cowman Wesley Ervasti wondered what that was.

Ervasti figured it was the most wonderful culture ever devised by nature. When a cows mows off grass or eats hay from a bail, she cannot avoid leaving some of the culture behind. This culture helps the animal with digestion.
Mother Nature made a deal with the cow. She said, "I'll provide you plenty of grass, but you have to give something back. Every bite you take, you will leave this culture in the forage and in the soil." . . .
[An animal science specialist] agreed that there had to be a reason for that culture on a cow's nose. He turned the idea over to a botany specialist who harvested this culture, diluted it with water, and sprayed it on potted plants. The usual treated and untreated planted anointed the greenhouse. There was a 50 percent increase in those treated with culture.

(From Reproduction and Animal Health, pp. 119-120)

I managed to grab the Fern's lead. I had read that, to halter train an animal, take the cow and tug the halter. If it goes where you want, ease up. Tie it to a pole, and when it ceases to struggle, immediately release it.

This all sounded very simple. But Fern will be two in June; she outweighs me several times over. After a bit of wrestling, I decided maybe I should just take off her halter. I got within a foot of her halter and suddenly I found myself with a split lip. I think I was butted on her forehead between her horns, but maybe I was gored. It's not many women who can claim to have been gored. ("How did you get that scar on your lip?" "Oh, I was gored by my dear milk cow.")

When Phil woke up, we both went and watched the cows for a few hours. He managed to get the halters off the two cows with leads; the third cow, the most friendly of the three, we couldn't quite grab.

The two born last June we hope to use as oxen, but they may already be too big to train. But, based on the recommendations we prefer, they shouldn't really be weaned much before now. Which leaves us, perhaps, looking for oxen from calves born on our own farm. Hmm.

Just in case we do use them as oxen, though, they need to have names that don't sound too much alike. I had wishes to call the three Beatrice (for both Dante's Beatrice, pronounced bay-uh-TREECH-ei, and Beatrice in Shakespeare's play), Belle, and Bianca (or Beauty). But the oxen can't hear the difference between Belle and Bianca. So we decided that Fern can keep her name, and the maybe-oxen we'll call Toots and Babe. One syllable, very different sounds.

When we got some hay delivered, I was quite thankful that we'd managed to get the halters off the two cows. Otherwise, how ridiculous we'd look! Tyson said that when he'd halter-train cows for 4-H, his Dad would tie the cow to the truck, and Tyson would hold the lead, tricking the cow into thinking that Tyson was the strong one making the cow do his will. He also said that halter-training takes about four months. Good to know.

So today, on the day we celebrate Jesus' resurrection from the dead, we also got to celebrate Phil's 37th birthday, and the coming of the Milking Devons to Spring Forth Farm.