Tales from the O-NO Ranch
Wellington, Colo.
It was a hot, hot day in October and we were preg checkin’ the cows to see how well the bulls preformed that summer. I was stripped down to my tee shirt with a plastic garbage bag, with a hole cut for my head and two for my arms, pulled over my tee shirt to protect me from recycled grass. Preg checking cows has to be one of the nastiest jobs on the face of the earth, but alas, somebody has got to do it. I could have called out the vet but I was capable of doing the job myself as long as the cows were at least 60 days along. If they weren’t that far along we didn’t want to keep them anyway.
Things were progressing well enough and I was comfortable with the number of cows that were pregnant. It appeared the ole bulls had done their job pretty well. I would have to stop every few minutes and take off my hat to wipe the sweat out of the brim and off my forehead to keep from going blind. I had enough cow poop on my face as it was without buckets of sweat to add to it.
At least there was one and only one more cow to go. I had been through over a hundred cows and my arm was about to give out and of coarse I was covered in waste from my eyebrows down to my waist. I grabbed this critter by the tail and my arm went in as far as I could put it … humm … “Looks like this ole sister wasn’t cute enough for the bulls or something because I don’t think she got bred.”
I pulled my arm out a little ways and back in I went and still I was determined that this was an open cow. “Put ‘er in the cull pen boys ’cause she’s open,” I shouted.
I heard a burst of excited laughter from the crew as Billy, one of my cowboys shouted, “I reckon we will put him in the cut pen since he didn’t have a calf last year either!”
HE? … I took another look as this ole skinny feminine lookin’ BULL made his way out of the chute.
Well, they had me there. The boys had their fun and ran the ole bull in on me when I was tired and not paying attention to detail.
I had to “laff” with them as they had penned me to the wall. I shouted out, “At least I didn’t call him Bred!”
If I had to bet, I would bet that this situation has happened to more large animal vets than you would think.
Those sort of incidents build character, ya know, and I will admit that I am a character and dang proud of it, missed diagnosis and all!
Stay tuned and check yer cinch on occasion and I’ll c. ya.
