If You Want to Be Clean, Stay out of the Corral!

Oh sure, she looks clean now . . .

I've decided that ranching is not 'clean' work.

I had been herdsman for my Dad for several months.

This combined my favourite activity, riding, with various other responsibilities.

Like checking the herd every day for cows that were calving.

Cows that looked like they were about to start calving.

Or cows that looked like they were thinking about starting to calve.

Ranching takes a lot of head work.

Also helping them when it became necessary.

And hauling feed.

Cleaning pens.

And grubbing around the barnyard doing whatever Dad came up with.

Yep. Not clean work at all.

This day, though, I was determined to stay . . . unsoiled.

My new boyfriend was stopping by and I wanted him to see me as the picture-perfect cowgirl. 

Sun in her hair and smelling of the outdoors - grass, sage, and fresh air.

Things started well.

I buckled the riding pad on my horse.

Thus eliminating the possibility of being covered with hair when he arrived.

I rode out to the calving pasture.

It was a bright, fresh morning with just a bit of a breeze.

Perfect.

I finished my initial sweep.

The easy, treeless part of the field.

No cows inconveniently doing messy things.

I started back, this time through the brush and small trees.

Still nothing.

Everyone was grazing happily, or contentedly lying down, chewing their cud.

It was a peaceful scene.

A clean scene.

I rode into the last copse (real word, I looked it up) of trees.

And there she was.

That one cow determined to undermine my perfectly planned morning.

Obviously calving.

And just as obviously having trouble.

Rats.

I rode over.

Yep. Trouble.

The calf's head and feet had emerged, but the little creature was obviously caught at the shoulders.

Poor thing.

Thoughts of my pristine wardrobe disappeared as I considered my next move.

The cow had to be herded to the ranch buildings.

And quickly.

We made it in record time, considering she was in heavy labour.

Finally, she was enclosed in the nearest empty corral.

I slid off my horse and quickly erected a 'pen' of plank walls around her, further hemming her in.

Then I reached for the calf's little white feet.

But this cow didn't want my help.

And certainly wasn't disabled by any discomfort she might be feeling.

I should have realized that a cow who had made the trip from the field to the ranch building at the speed she had, while in labour, was actually Supercow.

As my hands closed firmly over her calf's feet, she made a leap, flattening my hastily-erected fence and pulling me through the rubble.

Now a normal person probably would have let go at that point.

I guess I'm not normal.

Because I didn't.

Let go, that is.

Instead, I desperately hung on to those feet as the cow pulled me around the corral.

Through the dust.

And a couple of icky pools.

And that's when the calf . . . fell out.

Soon, mother and baby were happily together.

And I was headed to the ranch house.

I needn't tell you how I looked.

From head to foot.

My boyfriend's truck and I reached the front gate together.

It's all about timing.

The Cow Made Me Do It!

At least one of us was a lady . . .

It was hot!

I was tired!

Give me a minute, I'm sure I can think of better excuses . . .

The milk cow had been quartered in the east pasture, waiting for her to 'freshen'. (A cowboy term for 'give birth'.)

I know.

Cowboys are weird.

Moving on . . .

Her moment was getting close.

Time for her move into closer quarters.

And I was elected to do it.

On foot.

Sigh.

Dad dropped me off at the gate with specific instructions. "Just chase her along the ditch, past the ranch and into the near-west pasture."

I nodded. Instructions received and understood.

He drove off.

Things went well.

Except that Madame Cow (I use this term lightly) couldn't quite get into her head the part of our instructions that said, "PAST the ranch."

I should explain here that the entrance to the ranch was on the north side of the road. The ditch we were following was also on the north side of the road.

And, when the breach in the fence appeared, Madame Cow insisted on turning . . . north. Towards the buildings.

I had to sprint around her (remember I was on foot) and turn her back towards the road.

As which time she took the corner and headed east up the ditch we had just come down.

Another sigh. A little more forceful this time. And accompanied by a "Stupid cow!"

I got around her (feet, again) and turned her back west.

She followed the fence and again turned towards the ranch.

Way wrong!

"Stupid, dumb cow!"

Back towards the road.

Please head west. Please?!

Nope. East.

*#$! Cow!

Just a little swear.

This went on for some time, and my language, I'm ashamed to say . . . worsened.

Or got more colorful. That would be the 'PC' term.

Remember, I was raised around hired men.

Experts at the English language.

Or at least a colorful part of it.

Not an excuse, just a reason.

Again and again, I got round her and tried to head her in the correct direction.

Again and again, she . . . didn't.

And my language got more and more peppered with, shall we say, 'colorful metaphors'?

None of which explained to said cow exactly what I expected of her.

I have to admit that the poor animal was probably quite confused by this time.

There were the buildings. With hay and comfort.

Why were we going the other way?

Okay, strange human, I'll just go back where I came from.

No?

Except that it would have probably sounded more like this:

Food!

Home!

Food!

Home!

In 'cow' of course.

Finally, after what seemed hours of chasing back and forth, and turning the air blue with . . . ahem . . . profanities (me, not her), the cow skipped past the ranch entrance and, wonder of wonders, walked right over to the proper field.

Eureka! (real word)

I opened the gate and she stepped sedately through.

Then turned and looked at me.

Stupid human!

At least one of us had retained her gentility.

I closed the gate and started back towards the ranch, humming happily. All that had gone on before conveniently forgotten.

Dad's truck slid to a stop beside me. "Need a ride?"

I climbed in, still humming.

Dad drove for a moment. Then he said, not looking at me, "I got a real education this morning."

I looked at him, innocently, "Oh?"

"Yes. I discovered that my middle daughter knew words I didn't even think she had even heard of."

"Oh." Very tiny voice, "You heard me?"

"Heard you! They heard you in town!"

"Oh."

That was all that was said.

It was never brought up again.

But I knew that Dad knew.

And he knew . . . never mind.

I'd like to say that I never used 'foul' language again, but I'd be lying.

For some reason, working with cows brings out the lowest form of expression.

Probably a good thing I don't work with them any more.

And I should probably point out that swearing isn't an easy habit to get rid of.

Even now, years later, a very strange word will pop into my head.

I'm happy to report that it never makes it past my lips, but I feel some dismay in the fact that it appears at all.

Sigh.

I'm a work in progress.

I should have taken lessons from the cow.