Selectively Deadly Cow

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Cows can sure be notional critters. Case in point was a little black cow I ran on a share deal years ago.
Her tag was #213. She was an old range cow from up in Montana and wild as an antelope when those
cows were bought. Most of them settled down when they got used to me feeding them and handling them. I was usually alone, though my boy helped me after school.
Old #213 got to where I could do about anything with her on foot without too much risk to life and limb. She was a good mother, and I guarantee no one was going to steal her calf from along the fence by the county road. She had wintered a little harder due to a sore stifle, so I’d put her in the corral with the
replacement heifer calves the last month or two before she calved. She liked the round bale and even liked me when I poured the cake into the trough in the morning.
One morning my then husband had come along to help me with tagging and morning rounds. Old #213 had calved a few days before and I’d decided the grass was greening up and she could go out with the pairs and get out of the mud in the pens. I’d let the heifers out into the big lot for the day and just shut the gate on the cow and her calf, who was sleeping on the sunny side of the bale feeder on some hay. I’d already tagged the calf, so it was just a case of get the calf up, trail the pair into the next corral and then they could go on out the gates to the pasture. I’d gone ahead to open the wire gate to the pasture and my husband had gone in to get the pair moving.
I heard a shout and some swearing, and looked down into the pens and saw my husband on top of the
round bale in the feeder. Old #213 was rearing up like Trigger trying to climb on top and get him. Her
little calf was still sound asleep, in spite of the noise the two antagonists were making.
Ambling back to the pen, I got a loud dissertation given to me about nasty old cows and wives who didn’t seem to care very much. I recalled as I walked along, all the times when he had watched with
satisfaction as I narrowly escaped the jaws of death in various situations. So, I really wasn’t very concerned. It’s not like she could actually get on top of the bale, and even if she did, he’d have ample time to get off and get to the fence.
I went through the gates and into the pen with the cow still breathing fire and yelling insults at the man on the bale. She looked back at me, saw who I was, and resumed her attempt to get at him. Talking to
her, I walked over and got her calf up, scratching her little neck as she stretched. I gave her a nudge
toward her mama and, with one more beller and a promise to maim and dismember the husband, she
turned and walked out of the pen with baby at side.
For some reason, that seemed to agitate the husband even more. I’m sure it was disappointing to him
to not have her blow snot all over me. I followed my old cow friend and her calf out through the gates and watched them for a moment as the old girl started grazing the green grass. I’d even wiped the grin off my face by the time I’d gotten back to the corral.

cow

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About Jan Swan Wood

Jan was raised on a ranch in far western South Dakota. She grew up horseback working all descriptions of cattle, plus sheep and horses. After leaving home she pursued a post-graduate study of cowboying and dayworking in Nebraska, New Mexico, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota....

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