Cowgirling

Suna helps Ralph with the cattle.

[Q: If three identically-dressed men are in a pickup, which one is the real cowboy?]

“The real cowboy’s the one in the middle

He ain’t there just by fate

Cause first he don’t have to drive

And then he don’t have to mess with the gate”

—Michael Martin Murphey

Ranch life has been really good for Suna. He love of animals encourages her to get out there and learn all about working cattle and dealing with horses. Not to mention that she knows every bird around here by name.

Today she’s out helping Ralph with the cattle. Her own description is that she looks very “rancher-ish.” She may still be more hat than cattle, but it won’t be long now.

 

Cows and Laundry

“I wonder if we can eat that flappy stuff…”

She just looked at me, uncomprehendingly

Like cows at a passing train

—Don Henley

Cattle are naturally curious creatures, despite their reputation for incomprehension. Granted, their curiosity mostly involves whether or not a new item is edible.

That curiosity only leads to problems when it conflicts with my desire for clean clothes. While the house is under construction, I’ve been living in the RV, right? We do have a washing machine in the garage but no dryer. So, I hang my clean clothes on the back fence to dry.

And…queue the cattle.

 

Home Again

Dad is home again.

The new calf was not with its mama at the water trough this morning. Its absence is concerning because calves born this time of year often do not survive the heat. Chris and I searched for it in the grazer. We finally found it hidden among the tall stalks. It didn’t take a lot of herding to get it back with mama.

When we got to the hospital, Dr. W had already released Dad to go home. Two bits of really good news: The abdominal scan revealed no metastasis, and Dr. W. says dad has “a long time.” Combined with the medical news, the news about having a new calf made it a great day for Dad.

Shortly before lunch time, we were ready to roll. On the way home, we passed a Victoria county sherif trolling for tickets. He was driving a dirty pickup truck with a tool box and a headache rack—not lights on the roof. Only the logo on the door identified him as a cop. Sneaky bear! I wonder if he has trouble getting people to pull over because of the lack of identification. These are paranoid times, but paranoia has survival value.

Dad was almost himself by the time we got back to the farm, and the calf was still with mama at the water trough—very shady and cool there. I went into Yorktown to get prescriptions filled while Dad napped and Chris got ready to drive to Tildon for work. As I was pulling into town, Chris called to let me know Dad has a second calf. There was a new white faced calf to go with the brindle calf we found yesterday.

Another new calf to brave the August sun

Back at the house, Dad was feeling good enough to go through several of his standard rants: business, lawyers, politicians, and the decline and fall of the US at the hands of greedy Republicans out to destroy the middle class. I let him rant. It is good to see him with that much energy.

He is stronger today, able to move around enough to take care of himself. He still doesn’t have much appetite, but he is eating about as much as before the procedure.

A Little Better

The newest calf in Dad’s herd

Chris and I arrived at the hospital after Dr. W. had come in to talk to Dad. We were running late because a bad mama cow had come up for water without her baby, and we took a while to find it in the grazer patch and drive it back up to the shady water trough where the cattle like to hang out during the heat of the day. The last thing we wanted to have to tell Dad this morning was that we had lost his new calf.

Dr. W. had told Dad he had to stay another night in the hospital. Dad took this news with surprising aplomb. The he told us the CT scan had revealed no metastasis. Dr. W. says Dad has “a long time,” whatever that means. While I know he can’t predict the future, I’m much happier with “a long time” than I would be with “a few months.” Or less.

Some of the 23 bales of hay that awaited our return to the farm

By late afternoon, I was glad that they were keeping Dad another night. He woke up from his afternoon siesta in a very crotchety mood. He was down on everything. Yesterday’s surgery and a lack of deep sleep had caught up with him. He was too weak to get out of bed without help (never mind that he is 89, and many his age have trouble like this without the excuse of surgery—or cancer). He went through a litany of all things the medical profession had done to ruin his life. Then he got started on lawyers.

I hate it when he is unhappy like this. His pain pains me, too. So, I try to find something positive to say, but he wasn’t having anything to do with that. All I could do was sit quietly and listen without comment until he wore himself down. When he returned from a long phone call, Chris finally got Dad turned onto happier subjects.

We left shortly after dinner because Dad was tired and wanted to turn in early. We got back to the farm to find 23 round bales of hay had been baled in our absence—not bad for a 20 acre paddock being grazed by nine head.