February 2012

February 18, 2012: To Babe

I was seven when you were born. You were the first calf I could call my own. Oh, we'd had calves before that, and your mom, Blinkers, had had a bullcalf before that, but I knew I couldn't keep him and you were my first ever calf. You were born on the twenty-fourth of August, 2004. You were a little Jersey calf, a little faery creature with black eyes big enough to get lost in and I adored you.

I named you after my hero of the time; the little determined sheep-pig who saw the world differently and never gave up in what was my favourite movie, Babe. You were twice as gutsy, twice as adorable, and a hundred times as gentle.

You were allergic to your mom's milk. We fed you colostrum for the first few days, and after that, just for you, we made thick yellow mieliepap. We had to cut bigger holes in the end of your rubber teat so that the pap would flow easily. You loved your pap. I know you did, because I fed you every single time, morning and night; no one, ever, was allowed to feed my own calf. I remember you a lot bigger than the calves of today. Today, small calves butt my knees. I remember being able to look you right in the eye and wrap my arms around your neck.

You came when called. I called you each time I fed you: "Babe! Baby girl!" and you came. Years and years later, even now, even yesterday when I was a teenager and you were a cow nearing elderly, I could still call you. "Babe, come Babe. Come, angel." And you would still come even though the workers fed you and milked you. You would still come and your tongue would rasp across my face with sandpaper gentleness.

I think your first calving was one of the proudest moments of my life. Her father was Haystack Mo Jake. Such a grand long name. A real, registered bull, and she was a real, registered calf. I named her Bokmakierie after one of my favourite birds. I was about nine. I remember the soft noise you made in your throat as you licked the little wet thrashing thing dry; a deep noise and wordless, but it was love in a sound. Bokmakierie has grown into a truly magnificent cow. She gave 30 litres yesterday, in her fourth lactation. I am so proud of her. I am so proud of you.

You had the most amazing temperament of any cow that ever lived. You were so tame that I could sit on you, lie on you, run around you while you were lying down, but you never got aggressive. You never even shook your ears at me. You licked me in the same way as you licked your newborn calves and even when I didn't call you, if you spotted me, you'd come. It hurts to know that I'll never see you trundling towards me in that patient bovine way again.

I remember sitting on the concrete water trough and watching as you had your second calf. I know it must have hurt, I know that humans and goats scream and cry when they do it, but you never uttered a sound except that deep honey rumble when your second heifer was born. I named her Babeica after a warhorse, little knowing that the name meant 'my stupid one'. The story went that El Cid's warhorse, Babeica, was an incredibly ugly colt and when El Cid picked him out, the colt's owner protested: "Stupid!" And El Cid fondly christened the horse: "My stupid one." But somehow the gentleness of the name is greater than if he had called him "my majestic one."

Babeica gave me Briar, my little Studbook Proper heifer. I can take pony rides on her back. I know that you taught her how to love so much, you, her mother, Babe.

Your next calf was Blue Moon, another heifer. You had her in the night and I remember running outside barefoot in my pyjamas and seeing the little brown bundle in the grass, a small white crescent moon on her forehead. I remember hugging you and your sandpaper tongue leaving red marks across my skin as you licked me. I miss the red marks.

Then came Bona. Oh, who could forget that? It was a stormy day; so stormy that when Mom told me to check that none of the fences had been washed away I chose my best and most courageous horse, Skye, to brave the weather and the changed terrain. On our way home Mom phoned me in a panic; you were calving, but only one of the front feet had come out. I put Skye in her paddock and raced to where you stood knee-deep in grass, patiently waiting. There was no need to put you in a neck clamp or tie you up or have someone hold you. You stood there in the big paddock with no one even touching you as I soaped my arm and went in alongside the single skinny leg with its one white sock that protruded. I felt along the calf's head and neck and eventually reached a leg, bent back at the knee. As I struggled to grasp that foot, and eventually to bring it forward, I know I must have hurt you by accident; I fumbled, it was the first time I would ever calve a cow, but you didn't move a step. You stood still and uncomplaining and you never once crushed my hand between your pelvis and the calf. But once the legs were forward you gave such an explosive push that the little brown-and-white bullcalf shot out straight into my arms and I fell down on the hay with my lap full of wet, wriggling life. And you made a soft honey sound in your throat and licked first my face, then my gooey arm, and then your calf. I named him Bonaventure. Good luck.

You had Bedlam in the night, too. I was fourteen by then and a bit more grave than before, so I walked, but I still walked as fast as I could to where you stood with a little spunky heifer playing by your side. I stopped being brave when you made a honey sound and licked me as I hugged your small calf's neck and laughed and hugged you and said, "Well done, Baby. Well done." Bedlam lost the end of her tail and we never got around to dehorning her but Baby girl she looks just like you and that counts for so much in my book.

Your last calf is doing well. He has two little white spots on his flank; where they came from, I've no idea. I named him Beethoven after a great, deaf musician. He is a small faery creature and has eyes big enough to drown in.

I miss you, Babe, I really, really miss you. I hope you didn't feel any pain when I drove a needle into your milk vein and the bright blood splattered over my fingers as I struggled with the flutter valve, eventually sending half a litre of life-giving calcium into your bloodstream. I don't know why it didn't work, but I think God knew it was time you went home. This was your sixth lactation and I knew, though I didn't want to, that you'd start going downhill. You were skinny and struggling with your poor swollen feet; the farrier said you had laminitis and it was incurable, but you could still potter around for a lactation or two. I think God didn't want you to suffer all those metabolic diseases that drag at old cows every time they calve: the deadly milk fever, the debilitating ketosis, the mysterious weakness that attacks their old bodies, the arthritis that would have made walking - already painful - sheer agony for you. I hope that you felt no pain and no discomfort as the vet and Mom discussed your fate in low voices while I sat beside you, your head resting on my lap. I hope that you heard me say "I love you," for one last time.

The night you died, I got an email from South African Studbook. Your granddaughter - Blue Moon's daughter - has become the first Joyful Jersey. The email informed me that JSEFHRG11001, Joyful Blue Star, had been registered and her certificate was on its way. Star will be the first calf ever to have HRG tattooed in her ear. She has your blood; and I hope she grows up to look exactly like you.

You gave 12 442.4 litres of milk in your 6 lactations. Let them sneer at the number. You gave it all faithfully and uncomplainingly and our bulk tank is poorer for the lack of it.

I suppose these tears are a little selfish; tears for myself, and not for you. I'll miss you down here, but I know that your old feet are well again. You'll never suffer with all those terrible diseases that pull at old cows. Our Lord God saved you from that pain and weakness that would slowly tear you apart. I don't know if all cows go to heaven but I do know, Babe, that you went to somewhere very like it.

I'll see you soon. What's a lifetime compared to eternity? I suppose I can wait another ninety years or so.

See you soon. God bless.

Your friend,

Firn

February 8, 2012: Frankenstein

Life has been extremely busy lately for Joyful Jerseys! Thankfully it was mostly a good sort of busy.

On Friday our vet Dr. Louis came out to the farm for pregnancy testing. I had three cows in; Benita and Fiona for forty days post insemination, and Bokmakierie for her post partum exam. The good news is that Benita is pregnant; the bad news is that she is in calf to King Arthur, our own bull, which is not cool at all since I really want to develop my herd via A. I. It seems that there was a crisis on the day she was in heat and we had to send her to Arthur, as she had only be artificially inseminated once - with Eclipes-P, too. Blegh.

Fiona is not pregnant. Also blegh, she has been A. I.'d twice, the last time with Eclipes-P. I think I may be able to persuade the parentals into letting me give her one last shot with Eclipes before sending her to His Majesty.

Unfortunately the bleghs are not yet over. Babeica, having been A. I.'d three times, was sent to King Arthur when she came on heat last Thursday. I'm a little anxious about their fertility rates - I usually have good success rates with inseminating the heifers - Freya conceived on the first go - but I don't seem to be having any luck with the cows.

Bokmakierie was given a clean bill of health, which is absolutely awesome because she did retain her afterbirth but it looks like we managed to get it out with a course of injections. She is doing absolutely amazingly at the moment - far better than I expected this lactation to be. She has been regularly giving 29 litres a day, better than any of my cows have done this far. Just one more litre per day and we can hit 30 litres. Go Makierie go!!!

On Saturday I spotted Firn Junior (better known in our family, to avoid extreme embarrassment, as Junior) standing very still and looking preoccupied. On closer inspection, Junior's water had just broken.

About half an hour later, her second calf arrived. Unfortunately, it is a whopper of a bullcalf. I christened him Frankenstein (I have a habit of giving the bulls longwinded names like Bonaventure and Sir Bedivere) for his sins and thankfully both Frank and his mom are very healthy.

I was, as always, really hoping for a heifer from Junior since she's one of the better cows, but since both are healthy I really can't complain. She looks quite promising this lactation and I hope she can break Bokmakierie's record for her.

On Sunday we put the heifers through the crush. Bedlam, Bramble, Briar, Florette and Beulah are all doing well. Briar has had a problem with navel ill and her navel is still a little swollen, but otherwise she looks absolutely beautiful. She's growing into a very nice heifer even though she didn't do too well over weaning.

There is still no sign of Babe's calf, which is starting to drive me ballistic, but Babe herself seems perfectly content, so I guess all we can do is sit tight and wait.

Today's stats

Cows in milk: 7

Total litres produced: 124.6

Average litres per cow: 17.8

Top cow: Bokmakierie 29.2l