The cow who hated me

I grew up on a ranch in the Sandhills north of North Platte, Nebraska.  We ran a small spread consisting of  Hereford cattle and Quarter Horses.  We spent a good deal of our time watching over and looking after our livelihood; the cows.  This became especially important during the winter months when their survival, literally, is solely dependent on us.  The hay that we fed them during the winter months was cut, baled, and stacked during the summer months.

  Blizzards in Nebraska were something to behold.  The winds would blow the snow into a frenzy, piling it into drifts that could, and often was, several feet thick.  The visibility during these storms could be anywhere from a few feet to a few inches in front of you.  There were times when ranchers would run a rope between the house and the barn just so they wouldn't lose their way getting back and forth.  Winds during these storms would often blow 30 to 40 miles per hour and the temperatures would frequently drop to well below zero.  And it doesn't have to snow a lot to have a blizzard.  Often 3 or 4 inches would be all that you would get.  Actually, it doesn't even have to snow.  I have been in blizzards, called 'ground blizzards', where it was not snowing.  The high winds would whip up the snow that was lying on the ground and swirl it in the air so badly that one could barely see only a few feet but yet could look up and see a dull outline of the sun. 

When the ground became covered with snow the cows, unlike Buffalo, could not get down through the snow to the grass below so we had to haul feed to them.  In our case we would go to one of our locations where we had stacked our bales during the summer months and load up some of these hay bales on a wagon and haul them out to feed the livestock.  At other times, when we were expecting a blizzard and knowing that we would not be able to get to remote hay stacks, we would go out on horse back and drive the cattle closer to the barn so that we could feed them the hay we had stacked there. 

By now I'll bet you are wondering what this has to do with the tag line of this story.  Not a lot. but I added these details so that you will have a better understanding of what occurred on one cold, snowy (blizzard) day back in 1961.

A couple of years earlier, during a particularly cold spring day, we placed a cow that was getting ready to drop her calf into the barn.  Not a problem.  The cow didn't mind being there and she didn't mind me being there.  However, that all changed the day after she calved.  We had brought some milk cows into the barn for evening chores.  This new born calf decided to lay down behind the milk cows and when the milking was done I proceeded to get the calf up so that we could move the milk cows back outside.  Normally when one does this he keeps the calf between him and the cow so that the cow won't become overly disturbed.  On this day and with this particular cow she decided that she did not like me touching her calf so she charged me, hit me and her calf and knocked both of us back into the hind legs of the milk cows who then became agitated and proceed kick the tar out of me.  I managed to extract myself from the mess, mostly in one piece carrying multiple bruises on my legs, back, arms, chest and head.  From that day on whenever this cow calved she would not let me get anyplace close to the calf.  She didn't bother anyone else, just me.  When she didn't have a calf, although I was still wary of her, she didn't seem to mind me being around.

Fast forward a couple of years.  She had calved.  We were having a blizzard,  We had brought the cows in near to the barn and those who had calved or were getting ready to calve we put into our rather large corral (2 or 3 acres).  I went out one evening to feed these cows.  The first thing I looked for was this cow and her calf.  I spotted them clear over on the other side of the corral so I started throwing hay bales over the fence and then dragging them away from the fence so the cows can feed on them all the time keeping an eye out for the cow; except for one little moment.  I looked up just in time to see her barreling down on me.  I buried the bale hook into her nose just as she hit me. 

OK, it is winter and it is cold, snowy, and windy.  I am wearing long johns, Levi's, and coveralls.  That cows hit knocked me into the barb wire fence that I was standing next to.  And even through all of the clothing that I was wearing I have scars yet today on my legs from where that barbed wire cut into me.

Two things came from that incident.  First of all, I healed.  Thankfully.  Secondly,  she didn't.  Also thankfully.  It wasn't my blow to her nose that killed her.  She recovered from that.   We needed some meat and she became the logical choice to take to the butchers.  Can anybody spell hamburger?