An Anecdotal Life

Royal Pain In the Oaks

         We call it Royal Oaks. It is a cozy plot of land, about forty acres, with a barn we built ourselves and a tiny two bedroom house. It is my uncle's property, but my grandmother's home. Thus, the battle lines are drawn.

         About five or six years ago, Debbie and Russell (my aunt and uncle) decided to buy themselves a nice plot out in the country that they might retire on when the time came. Since the time was not right then, and since my grandmother was managing a similar-sized farm back in Texas all by herself, they decided to kill two birds with one stone. They bought the land, Grandma built a house on it, and they all managed the place together.

         Things went fairly smoothly for a few years, the biggest problems arising only when Grandma planted one too many azalea bushes or Russell mowed over some exotic vine with his John Deere. The farm--then unnamed--was a peaceful place, slow and content, where the fields grew wild and the ducks slid sleekly across the pond.

         About two years ago, all that changed. All his life, Russell has had a zealous love of cows. It has been his dream to stand by his tractor and gaze out over a sea of fuzzy black backs, enjoying the swishing of tails and the low buzzing of moos. Grandma--quite the horsewoman--could think of no greater nightmare.

         "Cows are stinking, filthy, stupid animals," she hissed at Russell the day we all filed into the auction barn for the first time. Just there to get an idea of the market, Russell had explained. Debbie and I shared looks of amusement, hanging back in what we dubbed the "Safety Zone" while Grandma pled her case with her son.

         "You won't even notice them, Mom. The house is down the hill, and they'll have their own pasture away from the horses," Russell said distractedly, his fervent gaze on the tiny pen at the center of the semi-circular room. That's where the cows would be shown during the bidding. You could practically see the cloven hooves dancing in Russell's eyes. He definitely had cow fever.

         "Won't notice them?!" Grandma screeched. Several heads turned toward us, causing Russell to tug his ballcap lower over his eyes.

         "Just sit down, Mother."

         We sat, contently flipping through the catalogue as Russell wandered to and fro, going to the barn to examine the animals, to the pen area to talk prices, and to the bathroom to get the scoop on the best cattlemen in the area. Finally, the auctioneer called the meeting to order and we yanked Russell into his seat at the end of the row. And then it began.

         We left that day with five pregnant heifers jostling about in the stock trailer behind our ancient old Ford truck. Debbie and I spent a lot of time in the Safety Zone for a while afterwards.

         One of the first rules that Russell told us was that we were not, under any circumstances, to name our new cows. I straightened my back, took stock of eartag numbers, and pointed to each one in a row.

         "One is Eleanor, two Amelia, three Aphrodite, four Ophelia, and five Jamie," I announced, giving my uncle a defiant look. If there is one thing I will not stand for, it is an unnamed animal. Russell sighed and attempted to ignore this new development, but even he came around by the time the first calf was to be born.

         The first one was out of Eleanor and it was a girl (we named her Hanna, after the tropical storm that induced her birth). As we all stood there at the fence, urging Eleanor to push, I heard a distinctly male voice joining in alongside we women.

         "C'mon, Eleanor, keep going!" he called to the laborous bovine. I shot him a sidelong glance, but he either didn't notice or did a supreme job of ignoring me.

         The next baby to come was the hardest birth we've ever had on the farm to this day. Jamie, the smallest cow in the herd (I suppose it's a bit generous to call six cows a herd, but there was no reason to dash their grand hopes at that point), went into a terrible bout of labor that went on for a full day before we realized what was happening. We finally called the vet, a handsome young man named Dr. Mike, to come and take a look.

         The doctor arrived, vet tech in tow, and promptly announced that he'd be needing some long plastic gloves, a six foot piece of pipe, a chain, a big metal hook, and a come-along. I blanched, staring at him stupidly.

         "She's giving birth, not pulling a truck out of the mud!" I cried, horrified as the technician began to carry the equipment over to the area where Jamie lay. The poor heifer was heaving with the effort of each breath, eyes staring blindly out toward the pasture even when Dr. Mike waved his hands in front of them. She was obviously in quite a bit of pain, and from the looks of things, it was about to get worse.

         "It's all right," Dr. Mike explained, pulling his gloves up to his shoulders. "I'll reach in and wrap this little chain around the baby's feet. Then I'll use the hook to grab hold of the chain, it'll be too slippery for me to keep a grip on. We'll attach one end of the come-along to the hook, the other to the end of the pipe, and brace that flat end of the pipe against Jamie's rear. Then we'll crank."

         In the midst of it all, I felt a flash of triumph when the vet used the cow's name.

         "Right, then." I looked over my shoulder at Grandma, who was making a disgusted face at the entire event. "I'm never having kids. I mean, really never having them. Ever."

         We named the baby boy Mike (after the vet, not after my boyfriend) and Jamie became my personal hero that day. The rest of the births passed relatively uneventfully, with only the slightest of aid from one of us humans from time to time. The rest of the calves were all male--which was both good (because we'd be selling them all and getting a small turnaround in profit) and bad (because our herd would not grow much that year). Ironically, only Aphrodite ended up being not pregnant, so we took her back to the farm we bought her from and traded her for two more pregnant ladies. I immediately named them Grace and Liberty, much to Russell's chagrin.

         Our next adventure, I was to discover, was castrating the wee baby boys. For this event, we once again put in a call to Dr. Mike, did the great round-up (I rather enjoy that part), and sectioned them all off in an area called the catchpen. We've named our catchpen the Taj Moohall; it amuses us.

         Now, for anybody who's ever dealt with any animal whatsoever, you will know that they all have their own distinctive personalities. Grace and Jamie are our sweet and peaceful cows, Eleanor the leader of the group with Ophelia as her right-hoof lady, and Liberty is the slacker of the group. Amelia, however, is a troublemaker. She's an evil wench who will attack--Russell says it's just guarding her herd--at any given opportunity, just for the sake of seeing a human run. She's not my favorite cow, and our relationship was established that fateful afternoon.

         In order to be able to work safely, we had to separate the boys from their mamas. This would be no small feat under ordinary circumstances, but with Amelia involved, it was a bloody nightmare. First, she charged the vet tech, chasing the poor woman clear over a gate on the far side of the Taj. Next it was Russell, sailing over the fence into the safety of the adjoining pen. Finally, it was my turn.

         I was standing on the walkway that runs along the chute (it helps us to be high enough up that we can reach down into the chute and poke the wee lasses with our sticks if they decide to take a break), watching the show in vast amusement, when Amelia turned her beady eyes on me. Unfortunately, I was in no position to run--the safe area was too far away, she'd catch me long before then, and the only other option was over the fence and down into the chute with the other cows, also not preferable. No, my only option was to stand and fight.

         What a brave picture I would have made, thrashing back the crazed beast with all my might, determination glinting in my eyes. The only problem was that I was completely and totally without a weapon. Miss Amelia was going to kick my ass.

         "Don't move!" I heard a voice bellow, and then suddenly a solid male back was inches from my nose. I blinked, half tempted to poke it. "Do you have a stick?"

         Ah ha! So it was Dr. Mike. I looked around for anything to use against our attacker, still snorting and pawing as she eyed us for the best angle of squashing. I spotted a large plank on the other side of the chute and boosted myself up over the top of the wall behind me to reach it. Dropping back down, I put it in Dr. Mike's open hand.

         He froze, then looked down at it. "This is a two-by-four!"

         "It's a stick, isn't it?!" I yelled, nudging him so he'd pay attention to Amelia again instead of me.

         Just in time, he turned around and swung at her with all his might as she charged us. I felt the reverberations in the boards beneath our feet as well as in Dr. Mike's back as he smashed me between himself and the chute wall behind us. Another swing, and Amelia's furor was dampened, probably by a throbbing migraine.

         "Go, now!" The vet pulled me out from behind him and pushed me toward the safe area, a little railing built around the walkway that none of the cows could get to in case of emergency. He had just stepped into it behind me when Amelia's head appeared in the opening. Unable to reach us, she let out a frustrated bellow but backed away, going off in search of a new victim. I gave my rescuer a grateful look and began to see things Grandma's way.

         Over time, we accumulated ten more cows (including our bull, Sir Walter Scott) and finally acquired a name for our wee bitty farm. It came to us soon after we bought three heifers and two babies to add to our herd. These ladies all had registration papers and we were inclined to call them "royal" because of it. Since Sir Walter was already a "sir," we decided that Royal Oaks suited the lot fine and hurried off to get ourselves made official in the National Angus Registry, or whatever it's called.

         There isn't an argument Debbie and I haven't heard since that first day in the auction barn. Cow poop smells worse than horse poop, Grandma says. Horses are finicky, but cows are easy keepers, Russell fires back. Cows aren't good for anything but eating. Horses aren't even good for that. The cows make a mess of the fields. The horses make a mess of the barn. Round and round they go, and where they'll stop, nobody knows.

         And from the Safety Zone, I will continue to find contentment in naming baby calves and driving the herd on horseback.