I’ve talked before about how chasing steers is fraught with peril. This is still a true statement, but I’ve come to realize that there is something worse. Yes, fellow farm ladies...there is something worse than chasing cattle back in.
Sorting cattle. I’m telling you...it’s worse.
See, the thing is, if you have cattle that have escaped their pen, everybody involved (except maybe the cattle) know exactly what the game plan is: get them back into their pen.
I cannot count the number of times a quiet leisurely evening has been thrown into havoc by the statement, “The steers are out!”
You’ve seen television shows of a firehouse when the alarm goes off, right? It’s kind of like that. Everyone scrambles to make sure they have clothes on (although I have chased cattle in my nightgown before), then get some sort of footwear on usually hopping around on one foot trying to put the other shoe on. Side note here: flip flops are NOT good cow-chasing footwear.
Often, clothes and shoes may be getting thrown on as people scramble out the doors to their battle stations. Yes, battle stations, because my friends, it’s a damn war! The marching orders are always the same:
- Keep them off the road so a passing car doesn’t hit one
- Keep them out of the field because once they are out there, it’s a whole new ball game and vehicles have to be employed (side note: ask Molly sometime about the time her school friend was here watching this happen)
- Keep them out of Gramma’s yard or face the wrath!
An overview of our farm looks like this:
The red area is for baby calves; we’ll call that preschool. The blue areas is for what we’ll call elementary school; calves that are not on milk anymore but not on full corn. The pink area is high school; cattle that aren’t quite big enough for the adult world yet. And the yellow area...that’s college. Where the cattle hang out until they are big enough to fulfill their life’s destiny of becoming food.
Oh, and that blue dot...that’s our house. By that you can sort of gauge the size of and distance to the other points on the map.
In the event the college “kids” make a run for it, the battle stations (as you look at the map above) are in the grass between the steer yard and the house; between the garage and barn right near the light pole, and between the barn and the steer yard to keep them from running through OTHER fences.
If battle stations can be manned before the errant animals get too far, a triangle is formed and the corners thereof keep moving inward until the steers are herded back where they belong.
I won’t go into Stage II of the battle plan (fixing the fence) because that’s a whole different level of fresh hell.
My point is...in that situation, everybody knows where to go, what to do, and when to do it. We are a well-oiled machine (practice makes perfect, right?).
Now, sorting cattle on the other hand is nothing but a practical experiment in bad communication.
For reference, a larger image of the elementary school yard looks like this. The two red arrows are the battle stations should this group decide to take a field trip. This is actually the easiest of the battles because (if they are noticed in time), there really isn’t anywhere for them to go except back in their pen.
However, when animals need to be moved between the two pens in this area, someone must man the gate, which is that horizontal dividing line. The gates are hinged on the outside perimeter and chained together in the middle. They are each 8 feet long and weigh...well, more than I do.
So, enter the players: Captain and me. I get the gate job because Captain is the one who knows which ones need to be moved around. As he meanders in and amongst a dozen or more riled up 300-pound calves, now kicking up their heels, he is most likely facing away from me. I hear him say something, but given the noise level and Captain’s naturally quiet voice...I have no idea what he said, so I just stand there waiting for verification.
Turns out I was supposed to get out of the way to let this, that, or the other calf through the gate. Well excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me for not hearing you, dude! Start over.
The next time, he is facing me which is extremely helpful when he says, “Let the black one out.” Folks, these are Holsteins. They are black and white and many times mostly black. Buddy, WHICH black one?!
The one facing you!
There are three of them looking at me, all more than 50% black. Can you be more [insert string of swear words] specific?
The one in the middle!
Okay, I can handle that, and we shoo him to the other pen.
Repeat this scenario times three or four or six...depending on how many animals he wants to move around. You can see why sometimes we are not on speaking terms, or if we are, there are death threats are being tossed about. And just for the record: no jury of my farm wife peers would convict me on that one.
Do NOT get me started on trying to move the high school kids to college because that is an epic disaster nine times out of ten. If you have a burning desire to hear about it, I’ll tell you in person someday. It’s just too much to describe in words. Besides, you get the idea.
I guess I need to be grateful that we have livestock to take care of and are able-bodied enough still to do so, even when I’d rather do just about anything else.
Happy Trails!
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