My relationship with our bullocks is less than cordial. Kevin grew up with cattle and there was never any doubt in him that he had to own some on the farm. Having a city upbringing, I am always open to any new farm activities but I must say that bullocks have broken my heart.
For our girl’s first communion two years ago, they received 5 young calves from their proud dad. To their father’s horror they named them all and wanted assurances that while they would be sold for a profit, they would not be eaten. We explained that we are not a hobby farm and what we raise and work with will at some point end up on a plate, the key is to give them a good life. We made a vague promise that we probably would not be the ones to eat them.This was our girl’s and my first close experience with calves, and to my distaste I had never
realised how slobbery, poopy and clueless they are. There they are, Angus bullocks that remind me of rambling hippopotamuses – Blackie, Brownie, Calypso, Hercules and Sparrow (after John Sparrow, the pirate. See his eye patch?).
I bucket fed them milk, making sure everyone got his share, treated their ringworm and made sure they had plenty to eat, always putting up with their drool, poop, piss and general rough behaviour. Our relationship started souring when they once too many times broke into the shed and left a mess getting at the feed, but what truly broke our tenuous bond was when they raided my polytunnel.
Now, farm animals breaking into gardens is just part of country life; it may break your heart and make you want to chew stones in frustration, but it is part the package. What I can’t forgive our bullocks for, is the fact that they chewed their way straight through the middle of the plastic of the polytunnel.
“I want those walking steaks sold! I’ll kill them myself if I see them in my tunnel again!” I roared at my husband, who promised he’d replace the plastic and pointed out it was probably time for it anyway.Now, I did get lovely new plastic out of it, but what astounded me and truly makes me doubt the intelligence of these animals was the last time they broke out around the tunnel. Ignoring all the new fresh grass around the tunnel and the beautiful broccoli growing inside, the idiot bullocks started nibbling on the corners of the polytunnel plastic.
“What’s wrong with these animals?”, I have asked my husband and any cattle farmer I have met, the only answer I ever got was just a shrugging of shoulders and no show of surprise. It seems you can expect anything from cattle.
I am finally getting my wish; the bullocks will be sold soon. The downside of the sale is that three cows in calf have been bought to replace them. My hope is that the females of the species are smarter than the males, because the intelligence of bullocks leave much to be desired.
The new calves will be born in a few weeks and they just might melt my hardened heart. I’m also hoping to give milking a go, even though Kevin has made it very clear that milking will not be in his repertoire, at all, but if I want to learn I can “knock myself out”.
You might consider taking a break in our holiday home, Casa Ceoil, and experience a slice of country life in the West. Spring is so lovely to see, with new calves and lambs enjoying the green fields and paddocks around the house. I will proudly show you the lambs, but probably point dismissively towards the calves.