Two-and-a-half hours it took, and they’d have done as well without me, as they weren’t rushed. Something to do with not vaccinating or tagging every animal, I think. They castrated (if that’s what you call it when they put a rubber ring around the testicles so they’ll dry up) the male calves while they were at it. The barn was cool and comfortable and I sat behind a piece of plywood set up on its side so the cow/calf pairs wouldn’t see me and shy away from the squeeze they were being herded toward.

Aside from tagging and/or castrating calves and vaccinating their mothers against anthrax, the men gave some of the calves shots for blackleg. Both blackleg and anthrax are deadly earthborne diseases that have not been seen much around here until the last few years when the ground has been wetter than usual. This bunch of animals is about to be taken out to pasture land that has a lot of lowlying areas, so they need to be protected.

Scott and his brother Bruce, both strong as oxes themselves, had a time wrestling down some of those calves, young and small as the little jiggers seem. In the photo above, they've got a calf in the squeeze and Bruce is marking down the number of the tag they're about to staple into its ear. This is how they keep track of which calf belongs to which cow, so that they can all be traced back to particular farms if there is ever a question of public health and safety. Scott is in the squeeze with the calf, making sure it doesn't get its body the rest of the way out. Usually just the animal's head pokes through and they can't get further, but the calves are too small to be held securely.

I can't say I didn't enjoy the time I spent out there. My job was easy and stress-free. There were a couple feisty cows that I worried might come in the wrong direction, but they never did. They were in too much of a hurry to get the hell out of the barn and away from those two-legged creatures that were prodding and pinching them.

The men talk to the cattle, calling them little pet names and such, quite affectionately. There are a couple hundred of them and these guys can tell them apart somehow. I suppose the numbered tags in their ears help, but still. They know the personalities and histories of each animal. While I was there, two cows were earmarked to be sold because they are bitchy and thus dangerous and hard to handle.

Shut up! MOO.