Thurs 20 April

“You should update more often,” you said.

Well, here I am. It’s been a full day, 100% pleasant, with my “paperwork” done, warm sun, a drive to town in the afternoon with my sweetie, a visit with Grandma at the lodge, Scottie’s cow ‘n’ calf tour before supper, and a sunset stroll ending in a ride through the pasture on the ATV. What’s not to love? You’re all jealous.

The one thing I didn’t do was any dishes. If I was a “good” woman, I’d do those now instead of sitting here, eating rice crackers while I wait for the water to boil for instant orange cappuccino. Tsk. Twice as many tomorrow.

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What’s a cow ‘n’ calf tour, you ask?

Cattle farmers do it on a daily or at least regular basis to check their herd’s health and safety. There could be a sick cow or calf out there, especially after it's been raining so much. Calving is in full swing here — about halfway through, maybe — so Scott will walk or ride the ATV through the pastures to make sure a cow hasn’t decided she wants to give birth at the far end of the field. That far away, in the bush by herself, coyotes could be a threat to a newborn calf. And if she has trouble with her labour out there, the farmers will be less able to help her.

“That one’s making bag,” he’ll yell to me, sitting behind him on the machine. Her udder is beginning to fill with milk, so he knows she’ll be ready to calf soon. They’ll keep an eye on her and when she looks like she’s close to labour, they’ll start putting her into the barn at night. Or they’ll fence her into a pasture nearer the yard, where they can check on her easier and fewer coyotes dare slink about in the wee hours.

He’ll talk to one yearling among all the virtual lookalikes, and it will stop and listen, knowing he’s speaking to it. "You'd like a good scratch, wouldn't you," he'll say, and walk slowly up to the beast and rake its bony brow vigorously with his fingers. "That feels good, doesn't it."

“Big puppies,” he’ll call them, or “little farts,” he’ll say about the smaller calves.

But “Stay close to me,” he says when we walk near young calves. “One of their mothers might decide to go after you. You’re different.” I follow as close to his heels as I can. One of my borrowed rubber boots sticks in deep muck and my foot pulls out; he has to stop and give me a balancing hand while I stick my foot back in the boot and wrench it free.

There’s a calf born today that he wants to get into the barn with its mother for the night, but the cow — a carefree heifer just hours ago — doesn’t want him near her baby and lets him know, whirling forcefully to face him, lowering and shaking her head. He’s been warned. He snatches his cap from his head, shakes and snaps it in her long face, tells her “Just go! Your baby will follow.”

But she is not leaving that calf, wobbly and all legs, even two steps behind her. She's "a good mother," they'll say about her later. But good mothers can be dangerous. It takes some considerable coercing to get the pair herded into the barn, and requires Scott’s dad’s help. The hat gets a workout and the cow gets an exacerbated tongue-lashing.

She’s a first-timer; tomorrow night, the calf will be waiting for her in the barn, and she’ll know the barn means a straw-bedded stall and some of that “chop” they all love so much, and she’ll be standing ready at the door to go in.