In Which I Prevent a Terrible Tragedy

Phil had strung electric line between hay bales when we left for vacation. He didn't have a way to electrify the line, but expected the cows would be well trained enough to avoid it until our caretaker came and rolled it up.

The cows must have forgotten their previous shocks, though, since they somehow managed to trample down several lines, and then bury them in a few feet of dung and spoiled hay, before our return. Compound that with several inches of rain, and the mass of moist, heavy, soiled hay effectively hid the ends.

Phil managed to uncover two of the three lines the first morning we were back. But the third was simply buried.

The cows have continued to eat through their hay bales all week without problem. For some reason, though, every time I went outside today I noticed a cow with a foot in that line. I would think, "Someone's going to get hurt. Lord, protect those cows."

I'm reading a book right now about a missionary who needed to learn much about prayer. And it struck me, just before dark, that I kept praying for the Lord to protect the cows, rather than just grabbing a pitchfork and shoveling for a while.

And so I found a pitchfork and dug in. How hard could it be?

There's a reason pitching hay isn't high on anyone's favorite activity list. The top inch was fluffy and light. Deeper than that, it was slow going. And, since the stalks of hay are easily two feet long, it was quite difficult to actually get a good purchase on the hay: like a heavy chain, the stalks immediately on top of the line connect to the hay on either side.

After I had cleared a few inches, and the sun continued to set, I came up with an alternate plan. If worse came to worse, I would just cut the line. It would be too bad to lose the line and hook, but better that than a cow.

I think it was the first time I've had to work in close proximity to the cows since I was gored. I've been extremely chary since then, but my personal discomfort was not important today: saving the lives of the cows was foremost on my mind. And so I worked, feet away from Snowman while he grazed; I looked up on occasion to see cow noses just inches from my face, driven by curiosity. At one point I stood up and a sheep tumbled where I had just been bent over.

And then the red end came! The wire ensconced outside the enclosure, I could thank the Lord for his protection of the animals, and go inside, easy in my mind. I had done what I could. And there is no doubt in my mind that there would have been a terrible tragedy. It had that sort of feel, that sort of advance warning. I've felt that way before and not acted; regretted it, too. How satisfying to act in time today.

Phil headed down today to do some lumber jacking. He said that he had dropped six or so tall pine trees when the chainsaw got stuck with less than an inch to go. He took the hatchet and cut a notch right above his chainsaw, but even that was not enough to free his tool. Perhaps it will fall in the night.

If not, we have ideas.

This is a good time of year. I have more time to read to the boys. And I head outside and just stand, looking at the spaces, trying to get a handle on what we've done, what we have yet to do. I went to look at the bee board. They are yet living, though I wouldn't have known it by the activity at the entrance (which was nil). They gave a gentle hum as I pulled the board, and then returned to their hibernation.

I watch the cows: not because they are more interesting than usual, but because it's startling to see how large the six-month bull babies are, how noticeably larger the two month-old heifers are (they grew so much just in the ten days we were gone).

This year flew by; it's nice to spend a little time just standing still.