NOBLE COW: MUNCHING GRASS LOOKING CURIOUS AND JUST HANGING AROUND
29.
When Friends Just Stand By
Waiting For The Inevitable
By Lewis Donohew
A cow was down in the front pasture. I saw her for the first time as I walked out to the mailbox to pick up the morning newspaper. The cow was lying near the pond, the front of her sitting up and her back legs stretched out behind her. When I approached her, she tried to crawl forward with her front legs but her back legs wouldn’t cooperate.
Her big brown eyes looked at me and she made a low sound, half moo, half moan.
Grazing nearby were two other cows, like friends attending the sick. They weren’t used to much human contact and spent their days roaming the pastures, feeding on the lush grasses. Only in winter when they were fed silage from the silo did they have some contact with humans and that was only slight. All the workman did was push a button to start the silo unloader and the auger that spread feed along a trough. Ordinarily they would have been skittish. Yet here they were looking at me with what I thought was considerable trust and some expectation, as if they felt I could help their friend.
I called my cattle partner, who came over and tried to roll the cow over, but it was obvious she couldn’t get up. Other cows, noticing us there, came to watch. I wondered if the cow’s back had been injured, maybe by the bull trying to mount her, or if she was suffering from some ailment. At that moment, as if in response to my thought, the bull meandered over and stood staring at me. He was a sturdy young fellow, a red-haired Limousin, and easily could have done the damage. He was neither gentle nor malicious. He didn’t chase people or cows, but he went where he wanted to when he wanted to and one needed to stay out of his way. At the moment, he merely wanted to watch and I didn’t need to move.
It was hard to judge the cow’s age. I asked my cattle partner what we should do. He said the cow was old and almost toothless but he didn’t know what was wrong with her either and he didn’t know of anything we could do right now but water her.
“If she don’t get back up soon, I’ll call the vet,” he said.
When the vet got there, he said the same things we had concluded. She either was injured by a bull trying to mount her or something went out in her back. She is getting some age on her, he added.
“I’d say in cow years, she’s about sixty. She may have just worn out.” He stood up from his kneeling position beside the cow. “I can put her down if you want me to.”
“What are the alternatives?” I asked.
“There aren’t many. You could put some feed out by her and give her some water. Pour some of it over her to cool her off now and then. If she doesn’t get up on her own soon, she’s not going to make it.”
The next day, she was lying down. She still raised her head when I came over but her stomach had swollen and she obviously wasn’t doing well. Through it all, the two cows were keeping vigil. My partner had left feed and water for her, but today she had taken nothing. On the following day, she was dead. We called the dead wagon, the people who come and remove dead animals. This time the bull was nowhere in sight.
I guess that’s the way it is when you get old. One day you fall and break a hip or you get sick and a few good friends come and sit with you during your final days. The doctor looks at you like a piece of meat and maybe does something to ease your pain and then they wait for you to die. Then the dead wagon comes and hauls you away.
(Lewis Donohew, is a reputed communications scholar and researcher. Now down on his farm growing grapes and living close to the earth, he contemplates issues of the day from a lifetime of experience and a love of the land.)
When Friends Just Stand By
Waiting For The Inevitable
By Lewis Donohew
A cow was down in the front pasture. I saw her for the first time as I walked out to the mailbox to pick up the morning newspaper. The cow was lying near the pond, the front of her sitting up and her back legs stretched out behind her. When I approached her, she tried to crawl forward with her front legs but her back legs wouldn’t cooperate.
Her big brown eyes looked at me and she made a low sound, half moo, half moan.
Grazing nearby were two other cows, like friends attending the sick. They weren’t used to much human contact and spent their days roaming the pastures, feeding on the lush grasses. Only in winter when they were fed silage from the silo did they have some contact with humans and that was only slight. All the workman did was push a button to start the silo unloader and the auger that spread feed along a trough. Ordinarily they would have been skittish. Yet here they were looking at me with what I thought was considerable trust and some expectation, as if they felt I could help their friend.
I called my cattle partner, who came over and tried to roll the cow over, but it was obvious she couldn’t get up. Other cows, noticing us there, came to watch. I wondered if the cow’s back had been injured, maybe by the bull trying to mount her, or if she was suffering from some ailment. At that moment, as if in response to my thought, the bull meandered over and stood staring at me. He was a sturdy young fellow, a red-haired Limousin, and easily could have done the damage. He was neither gentle nor malicious. He didn’t chase people or cows, but he went where he wanted to when he wanted to and one needed to stay out of his way. At the moment, he merely wanted to watch and I didn’t need to move.
It was hard to judge the cow’s age. I asked my cattle partner what we should do. He said the cow was old and almost toothless but he didn’t know what was wrong with her either and he didn’t know of anything we could do right now but water her.
“If she don’t get back up soon, I’ll call the vet,” he said.
When the vet got there, he said the same things we had concluded. She either was injured by a bull trying to mount her or something went out in her back. She is getting some age on her, he added.
“I’d say in cow years, she’s about sixty. She may have just worn out.” He stood up from his kneeling position beside the cow. “I can put her down if you want me to.”
“What are the alternatives?” I asked.
“There aren’t many. You could put some feed out by her and give her some water. Pour some of it over her to cool her off now and then. If she doesn’t get up on her own soon, she’s not going to make it.”
The next day, she was lying down. She still raised her head when I came over but her stomach had swollen and she obviously wasn’t doing well. Through it all, the two cows were keeping vigil. My partner had left feed and water for her, but today she had taken nothing. On the following day, she was dead. We called the dead wagon, the people who come and remove dead animals. This time the bull was nowhere in sight.
I guess that’s the way it is when you get old. One day you fall and break a hip or you get sick and a few good friends come and sit with you during your final days. The doctor looks at you like a piece of meat and maybe does something to ease your pain and then they wait for you to die. Then the dead wagon comes and hauls you away.
(Lewis Donohew, is a reputed communications scholar and researcher. Now down on his farm growing grapes and living close to the earth, he contemplates issues of the day from a lifetime of experience and a love of the land.)
