Growing Up??

I could have done it. It wasn’t that far and my depth perception is still pretty good. Right foot on top of the fuel tank and left foot on the side of the pickup box and ta-daa! Eight feet max from the swather platform to the fuel tank, then maybe seven or eight more to the pickup. I contemplated it. I visualized it. I thought, “Who am I kidding?” I climbed down from the swather, walked around the fuel tank, and put the tailgate down on the pickup to get my tools. There’s too much summer left to give in to my ego and get hurt.

Yes, I’m afraid those days are slipping away. Invincibility paired with quick healing are seemingly things of days past. It has been a gradual learning curve, but I’ve come a long way over the years. My better half driving me to the ER is happening less and less frequently.

She had fair warning. We hadn’t dated a month when she got to haul me to the hospital the first time. Why is it always such a surprise when I get hurt? I always think, post accident, why did I think that was a good idea? I wonder what my lovely pre-bride would have thought or done if she would have known that this was just a prelude of things to come.

It was a week or two before county fair. My niece’s steer was tied up in the barn during a rainstorm. Lightning struck the barn and must have grounded through his brain, because he was nuts after that and a twelve year old certainly wasn’t going to be able to show him. Sometimes it’s good to be young and strong and dumb, sometimes it’s not. This was probably the latter. I told her dad I could walk it out of him.

We tied a new lariat to the end of his halter. My plan was simple. I would hold on close to his chin and turn his head when he got jumpy. If he tried to get away, my brother could lock down on the lariat, and he’d stop. That was the theory. All was well for about thirty feet. The steer tried to make a break for it and I leaned into his halter and bent his head around. He wasn’t slowing down much, so my brother set his feet and that new rope stretched out nice and tight. Why I thought 300 pounds and 25 feet of rope where going to neutralize a crazed 1300 pound steer is beyond me, today. For a moment it seemed to work though. That rope stretched out like one of those balloon launchers before he couldn’t hang on any longer. It shot between the steer and me, over the halter, then wrapped under the halter back behind us. It was off to the races and I was basically tied to the steer.

We went step for step most of the way around the corral before I got tangled up in all the rope and went down. Apparently, that was the moment he had been waiting for. Now, Angus are a Scottish breed, but he did that Irish river dance thing on my legs. When he got tired of pulverizing me, he took off like a race horse and unwound me like a yo-yo. That nice new nylon rope went around and around and took most of the skin off my belly, chest, and back. I was so happy to be free of that calf I just laid there thinking how comfortable the mud in the corral was.

When I decided that my feet were pointing the right direction, and I didn’t seem to be losing too much blood, I sat up to see what I’d missed. My brother had dallied the steer to the fence and was beating him over the head with a board. When he was satisfied he had made his point he looked over at me and asked, “Are you OK?” Surprisingly, yes, I was OK, for a while.

I was young, and thought I was tough, and was desperately trying to impress a lady, so I didn’t say much for a couple days. My bride to be and I were having lunch and I was not talking about my 4-H skills. When we finished I stood up and everything turned yellow and down I went. She insisted on taking me to the ER which I argued feebly against. They x-rayed my legs and found I had nothing more than a broken ego. My legs looked like those dance charts in music class though, only hoof prints instead of shoe prints from my waist down. The ER doctor looked at my ribs and the leg x-rays and said, “This happened three days ago? Cowboys are idiots.” I didn’t tell him I wasn’t a cowboy, and I couldn’t argue with the adjective.

Dog brains vs Man brains…..no contest.

It’s finally spring and time for pairs to go to grass. I’ve got a set ready to work tomorrow and thought I’d bring them in to the corrals tonight to save time in the morning. I don’t know why I thought that, being home alone, no help in sight except for the dogs, but I decided to take a stab at it. 35 pairs were strung out about a half mile from the house, with the farthest away naturally being the calves. Jones (actual cow dog) and I walked out and around them. He kept looking at me all the way out there like, “why don’t you ride a horse?” That’s another story for another time. I explained it to him, but we had time on our walk. He didn’t believe me, but the time passed more quickly. I have to admit my surprise, but we slowly and surely bunched them up and pointed them all toward the house. Halfway in, we got to the cedar windbreak and like good cows, they split. All the cows but one, along with about ten calves went on the west side of the trees, while one cow and 25 or so calves went on the east side. This wasn’t in my plans, although my plans, as usual, were pretty fluid. I walked along the tree line talking to both sets of calves while Jones trotted out in the middle of the calving pen to keep the calves close to the fence. Good dog. The whole group came out of the north end of the trees close to the corrals. I had the gate open, but little chance of pointing 35 milling pair towards it let alone coaxing them through it. This is where my planning was a bit weak. I hadn’t really thought about this stage of the cattle drive because I really didn’t believe I’d get this far. I stood there, still in the trees myself, a little perplexed and making up plan C. A couple cows decide they were bored there and were going to head back out. I gave a little whistle and waved to turn them back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jones’ ears go down. He knifed through the trees and hit those cows heals. I had visions of nuclear devastation and cows and calves going every direction but in. *Language warning* I ran out of the trees screaming, “Down, Down, Down, Dammmmmittttt Jones, you Son of a ……GOOD DOG!!!!!!” Seventy tails, straight up in the air, went right in the gate. I did a little happy dance, closed the gate, and told Jones how good of a dog he was, which he already knew.

Don’t drive angry

So, for starters, Praise the Lord! I’m alive. There were a few seconds yesterday when it was in question. I had to think about it for a day before it was funny enough to write about. Today, I’m sore and have limited range with one arm and if I have to sneeze, I look for a place to sit down so I can hold my ribs, but I’m incredibly thankful that’s all that happened.

The pastures are starting to green up and the cows know it. I had one first calf heifer that decided she needed to explore outside of their enclosure, and wander towards the road. I put her in three times yesterday morning. The fourth time she wandered through the yard I kind of lost it. I jumped on the Big Boss (6 wheeled utility vehicle) and took off after her. She turned to run back and I thought I’d make a point with her. I got right on her tail, and was pushing her hard and fast back to the pen. In the blink of an eye, things got exciting.

She zigged toward the trees and I didn’t want her to get in them and hide from me. I should have zagged, but I didn’t. I turned sharp with her to cut her off, and my brand new tires grabbed hard. I looked up the equation for trajectories, but I didn’t know how to put all the scientific stuff on here. It’s not that important. The good thing is, I weigh 900 pounds less than the Big Boss, so in scientific terms, I flew farther than it did. Thank goodness. I launched off of it like Pete Rose diving into third base at 25 mph. I could see the box of that angry monster flipping up in the air towards me and for a split second, I was pretty sure things were going to end badly. 1070 lbs of iron rolled up behind me. I had skidded to a stop on my chest and face. I sat up and took inventory and was elated with one little scratch on my eyebrow. My hat was about fifteen feet in front of me and the Big Boss was upside down behind me. To give you an idea of what adrenaline can do, I flipped that 6 X 6 over like it was a toy. I drove it up to the shop and the dog and I WALKED out and put the cow in.

When I told Eli about it, I asked him if I should be a man and tell his mom what I did. He said, “You should be a man, take an ibuprofen and keep your mouth shut.” I was honestly surprised at Allison’s response. She asked if I learned anything. I guess so. 1. Don’t drive angry. 2. I had two pair of work jeans that weren’t ripped. Now I have one. Stay safe friends and don’t drive angry.

Delusions of Grandeur, Nagging Injuries, and Serenading Cows

I felt so good running through the snow. I had parked the loader tractor and was headed back to the pickup. The cold wind was pushing me, so I broke into a trot, then a jog, and then miraculously, it seemed, I was almost running. I’m going to stop here a moment to explain something to all the young folks who may be reading this. When I say, “Man I feel good.” or “I feel 25 again,” something bad is about to happen. It will happen to you someday, but right now, consider it akin to saying, “Here, hold my beer.” So, there I was, muck boots, coveralls, gloves, and hat on, but I felt great. I thought about running behind the trailer to get to the driver’s door, but I spied the trailer tongue, and I was suddenly finishing the 300 meter hurdles at the conference meet. I drove my lead leg over the trailer hitch just like old times. I snapped my trail leg through and the bit of momentum I had built up came to a sudden and dramatic halt. The trailer hitch has a little lever that locks it on the ball. It’s broken and sticks up a bit. When I pulled my leg through, the lever went through my brand new muck boots and into the top of my foot. Common sense says that I then face planted into the snow, but physics says that my momentum flung me into the tailgate of my pickup like a cartoon character. From there, I slid down and bounced off the bumper, and THEN I face planted in the snow.

The casual observer would never have guessed that it had been an attempt at hurdling. It most likely appeared to be an over dressed farmer slowly tumbling to the ground. I laid there for a bit, my foot slightly injured, parts of my body somewhat damaged, and my ego destroyed. I brushed the snow off and crawled into my truck. A baseball game was on the radio, so I quickly forgot my little mishap. Sometimes, having attention deficit is a good thing. The rest of the day passed with hardly a thought about any delusions of grandeur

I got up at 2 am to check heifers, and was reminded of my afternoon escapades. My foot was throbbing and my hip, which has been bothering me for several months started talking to me. I’ve heard about ‘nagging’ injuries, but I’d never really had one until tonight. I always wondered what a ‘nagging’ injury would be like. My hip says, “You’re old enough to know better.”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

“Well, if you’re not going to grow up, this stuff is going to happen.”

“That’s not fair, you were in on it just as much as I was.”

“You think you’re so……

It was getting pretty heated and I heard 763 lean over and whisper to 744, “He’s talking to himself again.” I think the heifers must be worried about me, because none of them had babies in the snow. However, as I was limping through the lane back to the house, a low chorus of voices, thirty concerned heifers, started singing.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun! Great, calving season just became a musical.

Bram Stoker vs Huey Lewis and the News

It’s important during calving season to keep your imagination in check. The weather determines how many nighttime checks the bred heifers get this time of year. When we started and it was so bitter cold, we were checking every two hours. Now that it’s warming up and drying up I’m trying to go out a couple times a night. This month I’ve seen all phases of the moon and when it’s not cloudy, I watch Orion go from shooting his arrow right at Hershey from the southwestern sky around midnight, to being gone over the horizon around three or four am. I enjoy the vastness of the universe and the completely different world the darkness holds. Seldom do I let my imagination run away like I did looking for the cow last summer…..until last night.

The 4 am check was entirely different than at midnight. Ground fog had rolled in and the moon was up and bright. I could see the dark outlines of the cows laying around me and the little black balls beside them in the mist. I walked the entire length of the calving pen thinking this had to be what Transylvania looked like. Bram Stoker must have been checking cows at night when he had his inspiration for Dracula. I started telling myself, “No, no, no, think of something else.” So I decided it was Huey Lewis and the News Doin’ It All For My Baby video. Much better.

I was standing just beyond the last cow, scanning the south fence with my light, when all heck broke loose right behind me. A calf, about 20 feet behind me to my right let out a war whoop and ran right past me bellowing like it was about to be eaten. Cows were up and screaming for their calves and it was pandemonium. I made the progression from coyote, to cougar, to werewolf, to velociraptor that quick.

I spun around and there in the middle of it all, caught dead to rights in my spotlight, was the guiltiest looking little wiener dog I’d ever seen. His ears were pinned back and his eyes were bulging out. He looked at me and said, “Sorry?” Apparently, on his nightly quest for after birth, which has turned him into more of a brat than a wiener, he bumped into the sleeping calf unleashing the preceding chain of events. I guess it just proves, thank goodness, that my life is more of a Huey Lewis song than a Bram Stoker novel. Whew!

Irish Yoga

It surprises me how many people comment about the age of my children. “Only a couple more years and it’ll just be the two of you. You won’t know what to do.” Well, this week was kind of a dry run.

Andie moved to Orlando. Laurel and Varsha are on their way to D.C. The boys have been at Chadron State football camp. Forgive me, I’m a man. I spent the first day of just the two of us for the first time since 2010 thinking, “OHHHHH Yeah!!!”

We got up early and brought the last batch of pairs in from the home pasture. We sorted and hauled most of the day, the cool breeze turning to a hot baked wind by late afternoon. But, I’m a man of focus, and I’m not letting cattle, or weather, or fixing the sprayer and rolling up the last of the wire side track me. I’m headed for the house on a mission, and you can imagine how utterly happy I was when my lovely bride offered me a glass of wine.

Some of you will remember what happened with my last glass of wine over a year and a half ago. I was even less prepared this time. I was so focused on my day that I think I stopped at the house around noon and had a bit of salad. On an empty stomach and most likely dehydrated I smilingly raised my glass and drained it. The next thing I know, I’m laying on the living room floor doing Irish yoga.

I couldn’t feel my teeth and I was singing, “Riunite and it feels so good, Riunite and it’s understood.” I have to tell you, I’m somewhat surprised and embarrassed about how much of that song I know. Sometime, during my serenade, Allison went to bed, but she left me in the living room in the ‘Drunken Dog’ pose. I was on my knees, backside up in the air, arms extended back with palms up, head facing to the right in a little puddle of drool.

That’s the position I was in when my phone woke me. Now, when my phone rings after 9 pm, I freak out a little. No one calls me after 9, except when my kids are scattered to the four corners of the world and it must be an emergency. I’m up and scrambling for my phone, but my arms are asleep, so I just flail them at the phone like pool noodles. I succeed in knocking my phone across the kitchen floor.

If I wasn’t so stubborn and cling to the past so tightly, I’d have a smartphone and could at least have answered it with my nose or face recognition or something, but, noooo, I still have a blasted flip phone. I dive on the floor and start pushing it around trying to bite it or bang it against the cabinets with my head hard enough it might pop open.

For the second time, the phone says “Call from 308…”, I only have about one ring left and it goes to voicemail. I spin around and get hold of it with my toes and pry it open. I desperately throw myself towards the speaker and shout, “What is it?!” A perky voice answers, “Hi! This is Heather. You’ve qualified for a six night stay at the resort of your choice.”

I start SPEAKING IN TONGUES! I have no one to interpret it but the dog, and she must have known what I said because I saw her scooching toward the stairs on her belly.

Stay sober friends, and have a romantic weekend. I’m sleeping on the couch.

Decisions, decisions

It’s funny how the mundane can instantly become exciting or terrifying or a combination of both. For example, I was raking hay early, way before the coffee kicked in. It’s hypnotizing watching the hay roll down the V-rakes into a nice big windrow. It’s exciting when the rake picks up a large snake and catapults it toward the operator.

I was looking back and the snake came out of the rake like a 100 mph fastball out of a pitching machine. He was totally stretched out and headed right for me. I was trapped under the steering wheel but I was wide awake and formulating an escape plan.

Thankfully, he fell just short of the tractor. He was squirming around trying to right himself and I was trying to slow my heart rate back down when the rake caught up to him. Here we go again.

The snake was airborne and I felt his chances of getting to my seat were improving. This was not how either of us had planned our day. I figured he was probably sleeping away the morning under a nice cool windrow and now he was flying, being chased by a steel swirling monster, and his only chance of survival was to join the guy that was dancing.

Dancing is a bit of a stretch, but you can drive a tractor standing backward on the hood, steering wheel in one hand balancing with the other. He missed the tractor for the second time, but I made the executive decision to abandon ship if he came at me again.

It was a relief on the third attempt he was towards the end of the rake and didn’t get nearly as close and finally went through. I sat back down in my seat and realized I had performed the entire show fifty feet from I-80. If they didn’t see the snake, I can only imagine what they were thinking.

Bad Bull, No, No!

Dad loved to tell stories. I guess it rubbed off on me a little. In honor of Father’s Day, I will share one of his favorites. To set the stage a bit, Dad and Cal were checking pastures and had arrived at the replacement heifers. They were a beautiful set of registered purebred Angus heifers and Cal’s pride and joy.

The goal with heifers is to breed them to a smooth shouldered, easy calving bull that, come spring, the calf will just fall out when the heifer sneezes. This particular day, standing in the middle of those heifers, was the biggest, ugliest, over-muscled Charolais bull you have ever seen.

It could have been Cal’s vision of C-sectioning all his heifers. It could have been the thought of little white calves trotting around his black cows the following spring. It could have been the empty bag of nibs and Baby Ruth candy bar wrappers, but something snapped.

That Charolais had run the little heifer bull off to the creek, and he wasn’t about to give up his new found harem without a fight. Cal roared up to him with his old green GMC, honking, beating the door, and screaming things I just can’t write. The bull was up for the challenge. He blew snot, threw dirt, and head butted the front bumper. The 350 in that old Jimmy just about crawled out of the hood and Cal started winning the pushing match.

The bull decided to run and the chase was on. Cal would bust that bull right in the backside and send him end over teacups. The bull would right himself, take off on the run, and Cal would get him again. About the third time the bull got rolled, he waded out into the creek.

I will interject a note here. I’ve seen several bulls fight down on the creek, and apparently, the creek is sanctuary. When the bull that is losing wades into the creek, the fight’s over. Not that day.

That ol’ Charolais was standing out in the creek, panting, trying to recover, when Cal jumps out of the pickup and grabs a shovel. Unfortunately for the bull, it wasn’t blind rage, because Cal saw him just fine and brought the shovel down right between the bull’s eyes. The bull dropped like a rock.

Cal got back into the pickup and he and dad watched the bull struggle to his feet and stagger out of the creek and limp towards home. Dad says “You gonna tell ’em?” I can’t put Cal’s response in quotes, but it was along the lines of ‘no, they’ll just think he was in a bull fight’. “Are you kidding?” This was always dad’s favorite story ending…..”It says GMC on his ass, and Sears & Roebuck is stamped on his forehead! Somebody’s gonna notice.”

“Pardon me, I thought you were someone else.”

*WARNING–This post will be a little more PG than usual, but it was funny. I’ve got a bucket calf that spent the spring with the first calf heifers. When I would grain them in the morning it was a supplemental buffet for the calf. He would just walk behind them and help himself to breakfast while they ate. They went to pasture last week and I had put the calf out in the home pasture with some old cows, hoping he could steal a little from them.

He got bored or hungry because he showed up in the yard to help me do chores this morning. I’ve got a set of replacement heifers that get their corn every morning in the bunks like the cows did all spring. The calf perked right up and headed down the line of heifers checking each one out. No bag, no bag, and so on.

Well, Big Mac is in with the heifers and was at the bunk too. He’s just a yearling, so he’s the same size as the heifers. The calf peeked between Big Mac’s legs and the brakes went on. He bowed his neck down and I swear he said “Aha!” I leaned on a post and said to the cat, “This could be interesting.” I formed two hypothesis; 1. The bull is going to kick that calf into next week or 2. That bull is going to tear out a bunch of fence.

The calf squared up and went in with a vengeance. Big Mac’s head came straight up out of the bunk. His eyes were as big as saucers. He stopped chewing and a few kernels of corn fell out of his mouth. He stood stock still except for his ears. They started twitching back and forth to what I can only assume was the rhythm of the suckling calf.

After a few moments the bull looked slowly up and down the line of heifers, and I just know he was asking if anybody else noticed anything different about breakfast this morning. Then he put his head down and started eating again. It wasn’t what I expected, but my scientific conclusion is that the teenage male, no matter the species has only two concerns, sex and food.

Public Safety Announcement

This is a PSA. Be careful out there campers. This morning I went out to tag calves. I grabbed a new baby, threw him down, plopped down on him and reached for the tagger. Next thing I knew, mamma was doing that break dance move where you spin on your head, only she was on my ribs.

After a couple circles I spun out of the pocket to my right, looking for some running room. I thought I was going to make it but the pursuit was hot. She put her head right between my shoulder blades and planted me in not the softest part of the calving lot. She skidded across me and came to a stop about 15 feet away.

I got up on my knees and discovered I had landed right by my calving kit, which was still intact. A quick inventory and I found I was still in one piece. She was standing there huffing at me, but I was feeling kind of cocky for living through that, so I laughed and told her, “HA! You big turd, you didn’t even knock my hat off.” The snot flew and she went 0-60 right now.

I’m going to brag a little, because I hurdled the feed bunks and a four wire barb wire fence, in my coveralls, carrying the calf kit. Sometimes, it’s all about incentive. I thought I could use a little sympathy, so I went in and told my sad story to Allison. She said, “Oh the poor thing, she’s just hormonal. She’ll calm down in a day or two.” What?! She about hormoned me into next week. Sheesh, I feel like Rodney Dangerfield.