What I learned from a cow

It's the beginning of November, a chilly, overcast day in eastern Ohio to update a herd of cattle on their shots. I'm at Faith Ranch to take pictures of the updating, as well as...well, let's call it working the cattle, which is a polite, ranchy way of referring to the de-bulling of the male calves, as well as palpating the female cow or checking for pregnancy.

After rounding up the cattle, they seperate the calves from the mothers and lead them to a different pen. The pathetic mooing is loud but it works out because I get some great close ups of the calves. Through my lense, I observe how slobbery noses are really cute when there's a fence between me and said leaking nostrils.

Next they work the cows (all females) by sending them one at a time through a series of metal fences into a chute. The closed metal fencing is just wide enough to accomodate one bovine at a time, so a single file line has to walk through. Since a cow's main goal is to get away from the scary humans, they are eager for any hint of freedom. The cow in the front of the line (heretofore referred to as Bessie) sees a clearing in the metal fencing up ahead - an open door! Bessie goes charging through the doors, only to learn it is just wide enough for her head. And when she pulls back, she discovers she can't get her head back out. Her only chance for release is to wait until the handler opens the chute. In the meantime, the cow behind her has been blocked by a swinging metal gate so that the only cow in the chute is Bessie. The same swinging door that has closed off the way for the other cows has created an open doorway that allows the vet access to work the cattle.

I'm shivering. My heavy fleece liner isn't doing much for my cold hands. I hadn't brought gloves because I thought they might interfere with pressing tiny buttons on my Nikon. Now I wish I'd cared a little less about the pictures and more about the cold. I step up to the chute to catch the eyes of the vet in my picture, when the cow, whose head was currently stuck in the chute doors, starts throwing her weight around in protest. I watch through my viewfinder and learn something very profound:

Cows are stupid.

So maybe this is a gimme. No writer has ever written sonnets to the amazingly intelligent cow.

The thing to remember about cows is their mindeset; because they're prey, their instinct is to shy away from the hunter or whatever scares them, which can be anything from a dog to a plastic bag waving in the wind. Cows are easy to manipulate because of their fear (that is a lesson in and of itself. Read that last sentence again and tell me what fear makes you easy to be manipulated).

They are about to release the angry mama cow from the chute when they wave me to the side out of harms way. When the vet opens the doors, the cow breaks out of the chute with head down, hooves diffing deep. This bovine is determined to get out at all costs.

I watch the little kick she gives in her exit dance and I think we should all thank God for this fear cows have because she is gigantic. All cattle have a one-track mind: when they want to get away, they will run through, over and under anything that gets in their way. Anything to get away. Thank goodness they don't know their own strength otherwise cows might could rule the world. I am amazed that the narrow chute is holding up. Rusted through as it is, it very nearly doesn't. Speaking as one who stands to get hurt if the chute gives out, I'm taking this as a miracle straight from God.

Later, it is down to the last few cows and I've set aside my camera. More drama is unfolding. The rancher is trying to get three cows to obey and walk toward the metal fencing. The cows are having second thoughts. I've never seen a cow fold herself in half, but Bessie does. On her way through, she sees the chute and decides she doesn't like it. Instead of going forward, she turns her nose to the back of her hide and squeezes herself to the side. She has managed to get herself stuck, bent in half.

Cows in a panic are dangerous. I've read about, sung about (I love you, Chris Ledoux!) and watched stampedes. But there is nothing that comes close to the exhilerating, heart-pound fear of being up close and personal to a herd of stampeding animals. Even if the stampede is not in full all-out-run mode, it is an awesome sight. Hooves hitting the ground with loud thwacks while their heaving bodies strain to get away. I know it's full out panic when I can see the white of their eyes rolling in their heads. Now picture only two or three cattle, all full grown, in a tight maze of metal fencing. Bessie gets a sniff of freedom through the metal doors. She gets excited, rams her head through the opening, expecting to bust through to the other side. The second and third cows get excited and think they'll reach the promised land soon, too. Remember when I mentioned that swinging metal door, closing off the other cows? If the metal door operator misses his cue, cows number two and maybe even three can seriously hurt Bessie in their panic. They don't care that Bessie is stuck. They are so focused on release, they will climb over and/or under her to get out, a complete mindless disregard of who they hurt.

I watch this scenario play out as Bessie, after unfolding her bent self and managing to get free, has fallen for the chute trick. She rams her head through the doors and now can't go anywhere. Cows number two and three have decided that freedom lies through Bessie. Number two is on top of Bessie, sharp hooves digging to sniff through the doors, while cow number three has lifted Bessie and number two off the ground in an effort to go under. There is a cow pileup and I feel terrible for Bessie, who has now become a beef sandwich between two alarmed idiots.

I have an introspective moment while clutching the steaming coffee cup, my numb hands holding tight to the fleeting warmth of the styrofoam: how often am I cow number two? How often do I hurt someone in my rush for freedom, my panicked need to get away? I wonder if we sometimes resemble cattle to God.

I have no time for deeper thoughts because the stooped, wizened, commanding vet has just summoned me. I hand off the coffee to its rightful owner (I had just been borrowing the heat). Climbing over the metal fencing, I head toward the box of gloves with trepidation...

To be continued in Part 2: What I learned from the back end of a cow