The Cows Come Home

Mike in the Middle

This is a 2000 era Farm Side column I dug out to share with a friend and retyped. All winter long I now keep a small flashlight in my jeans pocket, and bathrobe pocket (I have chased many a heifer and done many a barn check in that old, green, reindeer robe) and there are dozens on the counter. I am rarely out of reach of one. Dear old Mike his long gone now, but we sure had some great times, back in the day.

Step number 1) Remember to bring the flashlight.

“The cows are out.” Words to strike terror in a farmer’s heart. Even worse if the speaker is a state trooper. Especially when the telephone rings at 2 AM.

You’re sleeping peacefully with visions of new tractors dancing in your head. You fumble for the phone and try to find your ear in the dark.

A voice says, “This is Trooper So and So. Do you have a farm on (whatever road you live on)?”

When you reply in the affirmative, you learn that your cows are in the road.

Terrific.

We experienced this phenomenon twice this year. Two untimely rodeos were caused by the power company. They thoughtfully removed our pasture fence in order to build an access road. Sadly, they forgot to put it back up and we forgot to check on them so...at 2 AM...it was Trooper So and So.

Our cows were out on 5S.

In my infinite stupidity, I crawled out of a cozy bed to help my husband corral them-voluntarily. After all, the dogs work best for me and a good dog makes rounding up strays easier.

Theoretically.

I stuffed my feet into old sneakers, collected Mike, gathered up a rope, and set out.

What? Take along a light when you’re chasing cows in the dark? Heck, that would take foresight. Not my style.

At the farm, I was met by flashing lights at the bottom of the barn driveway. I proceeded to find out why smart folks carry flashlights when they peregrinate in the dark. What with the construction, the road had no shoulders, so I staggered blindly through the mud to the source of all the light.

Lucky me.

Gael, rounding up a roo

A compassionate neighbor and a pleasant state trooper had already gotten the effant bovines out of the road.

Unfortunately, off the road consisted of on top of the cliff that resulted from the construction of our new driveway. This cute little precipiece is somewhere between 20 and 30 feet high, and a nice, sheer, 90-degree angle from the the hard, unforgiving ground. Cows have four-wheel-drive and clamber up such escarpments with ease.

Fat women don’t.

I kept Mike on a leash, since it’s pretty hard to see a black dog in the dark (especially without a flashlight.) The trooper thoughtfully lit our way with his spotlight, as we clawed up the easiest part of the bank. (Easiest is a euphemism for just barely possible to surmount if you grab onto little bushes and convince the dog that, just this once, you want him to drag you, rather than heel.)

Lucky for me, Mike has four-wheel-drive too, and will try anything if it gives him a chance to work stock.

Once up, I still kept the long rope on him, since the flat area at the top of the cliff is only about eight feet wide. The bossy cow ringleader thought it was cute to perform a high-wire act at the very edge of the precipice. She tippie-toed daintily along, silhouetted against the glare of the spotlight. I was afraid in his enthusiasm that Mike would push her off the edge and follow her over. Of course, with the rope on there was the possibility that he would drag me along too.

Meanwhile, Ralph ran to get the barnyard gate open.

With much yelling of commands, like “Walk up…. Lie down! Lie down! Lie DOWN you blankety-blank idiot!”, MIke and I, lit by the kindly trooper, drove the miserable, rotten, cows, along the cliff top.

All this was going about as well as could be expected, what with cows, and over-eager stock dogs and all, when suddenly the trooper turned off his spotlight and sped away.

I assume that he had another call, or else, since we were out of his sight, he thought we had the situation under control.

Under control.

Under siege more like. I stood there at the narrowest part of the cliff, in the dark, among the thistles, fastened by a rope to an enthusiastic dog, who wanted to get those cows and get them now. I was terrified that he would pull me over.

So why didn’t I just let him loose to deal with them himself? For one thing I have six years of training invested in him. And besides I like him. I hung on tight.

Somehow we fumbled over rocks, through thorns and mud, pushing those lousy bovines to the gate.

When they were all inside the barnyard, Ralph said, “let’s leave them and go home and get some sleep.”

Since I didn’t want to do the little chore we’d just finished ever again, I insisted that we lock them up in the barn.

Good thing, because somehow a first-calf heifer we had left indoors overnight had become entangled in her stall and was almost hung from her stanchion. Had we not performed our little drama on the cliff and then put the cows inside she would surely have been dead by morning. Instead she’s fine.

Sometimes you just get lucky.

The next day I checked how close the ring leader had gotten to the edge. Her tracks actually overlapped it.

We let Mike watch TV for a couple of hours as a reward for his part in the action. He thinks all those little moving figures might be cows and he loves to watch.

And I now keep a heavy-duty flashlight under my pillow.

I have nightmares about that stupid cliff.

If you ever wondered about the threecollie thing