Some cows just throw dirt and make a lot of noise. Others mean every bit of it.
Having spent my whole life around cows, it takes a lot for one to make me nervous. I’ve seen my share of cows that have a big bluff, but little fight. They throw some dirt, put their head up in the air, and beller, but that’s all they do. This spring however, I’ve had more than enough opportunities to learn the line between all bluff and all fight.
Let’s back up for context. My husband and I had an opportunity fall in our collective lap that allowed us to buy a few cows of our own. With the busy spring work, I knew the feeding, checking, and tagging would likely fall on my chore list, something I was actually excited about. I figured the kids could pile on the 4-wheeler with me so we could trail through the cows, count and tag the newborns, then put a bale in the feeder each day.
It was all a pretty simple plan. Which should have been my first warning.
I learned very quickly that these cows had what I can only describe in a positive way as strong mothering instincts. Red Angus are known for their maternal traits. Some of them are apparently overachievers, a fact I learned firsthand as I sat holding a calf while its mother came sprinting at me, bellowing for the whole herd to hear.
I’ll admit the first few times those momma cows got loud and in my face, my heart thumped a few extra beats. Regardless of the adrenaline surge, I got my work done quickly and unscathed. I might have even patted myself on the back on a few of the rowdier, nose-to-nose cows. And the silver lining, those moments helped me form a very informed opinion of which cows were worth keeping and which were definitely on the cull list.
With a handful of calves on the ground, we began loading them up and taking them to summer pasture, a chance to see a whole new side of them. A side I didn’t like at all.
More than once we had to take a deep breath and regroup when the handful of pairs we were bringing into the corral scattered like chickens with a fox in the coop. As the weeks wore on, we had to change tactics just to get the cows in the corral and still live to tell about it.
The first of our ornery cows was #41. We knew from day one she was full of more than bluff. Her calf had slipped through the wire fence, a blessing in disguise. I opted to tag the calf first before pushing it through, and I was glad I did because the fence was the only thing standing between me and a very unpleasant introduction.
When it was her turn to be sorted, #41 ducked and dodged us more times than I could count. And then she got mad, a moment I distinctly remember because she turned straight for my son on his motorbike with every intention of causing damage. My momma bear instincts kicked in and all rational decision-making left the building. Let’s just say we both won that fight—she didn’t end up in the corral, but I got in enough good licks to feel vindicated. The 4-wheeler may tell the story differently.
#41 must have sensed we meant business when we showed up on horseback with ropes in hand, because she trotted right into the corral without a fuss. We thought maybe we had turned the corner. Turns out she was just lulling us into a false sense of security, because when it came time to load her in the trailer she reminded us of her deep-seated hatred for us. After just a few steps into the pen, that darn cow threw her head in the air and had us hopping the fence like a jackrabbit with a pack of cow dogs on it.
Obviously we lived to tell the tale—a tale highlighted by the fact that bluff was a five-letter word that five-letter cow didn’t know.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t even the worst of them. A week later we went to move another group of cows, and had an encounter with one that was lucky we still turned right to pasture instead of left to the butcher shop. I had my suspicions early on about #34, but had excused her high-headed chase after a long haul from Montana and a trip through the chute to be branded. She was loud and snorty tagging her calf, but not the worst of the bunch.
#34 was on my keep-an-eye-on-her list, but thirty seconds into the day she graduated to the don’t-turn-your-back-on-her list. She walked into the corral pleasant as could be, then promptly turned to run back out the gate, smashing the motorbike that attempted to block her way in the process. Since we don’t back down from a fight, we “convinced” her back into the corral where the fight continued. It might have taken an hour to get her loaded, perched on the fence the whole time, but we won in the end. I’m still not convinced the butcher shop wasn’t the better option.
The following day we had a few of the last heifers to run through the chute, and they too thought we’d enjoy scaling the fence. I don’t know if there was a sign on our backs that said “Try me!” or what, but apparently word had spread through the herd. In a small moment of fatigue, I might have shouted, “I’m so tired of being chased at!”
There are only a few left to turn out, and my hopes are high that the worst is over. If nothing else after a spring spent climbing fences, dodging charging cows, and wondering if there was a bounty on my head, I’ve come to a conclusion: some cows are all bluff, some cows are all fight, and fences exist for a reason.
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