The Animal Health letter shouted through the envelope … Don’t move we have you covered. A quick phone call elucidated the relevant facts – we probably sent you a letter 5 months ago and since you haven’t complied you cannot move your cattle. ‘Cow’ I said, ‘cattle is a collective and I only have one, and I normally move her to a stall on the next farm where the vet can prod in safety’.
‘You can’t move her’.
‘She has horns and is not tame’. Stalemate.
It would have been helpful to be sent something saying we are going to freeze your cow – get a vet in asap you itinerant yokel – but bureacracy tends to thrive on fascism more than helpfulness so I now have the wonderful situation of having to look at getting Flora locked in a sheep box so the vet can do a TB test – so the vet, and also importantly ourselves, don’t get gored.
Ali and I discovered that the wooden box only had three sides now as Flora or the sheep had dismantled one side and pooed all over it. The weight of poo made it impossible or at least undesirable to lift. Ali scraped a lot of the poo off with a stick. This was shaping up to be a very unpleasant birthday (which had already started with unwrapping my first present – an ipood – a collapsible trowel for shovelling your own excrement into a red bag stored in its handle for when in the wilderness).
Our wellies were proving themselves amazingly slippery and I almost slipped into the mud and poo mix a few times. I must rent the field out for World War One location shoots.
Food in the box and Flora was there with suspicious sheep eyeing the situation. Flora in, wooden gate locked into place – Kim and I had to shove the heavy wooden gate into place using a spade to lever it out of the mud with all of my weight used to push it forward. Chain locked it – perfect with the vet due to arrive at 2pm. She arrived at 2.07. Flora broke out of the box at 2.05 – simply leaned against the gate and seperated gate and chain in one fell swoop – Houdini would have been impressed.
Flora was now running around the field in a ‘Born Free’ sort of scamper and a bit of hay in a feeding tray attracted her attention. Ali’s chum Ben was shaking his nuts (steady, this is cattle feed) and the Irish girl vet armed with 2 huge syringes was assessing the situation. ‘Right so if you push her towards the fence I will stab her in the neck.’ she breathed so Flora couldn’t hear her.
I asked if she had a halter and she produced a sparkling clean white piece of rope with a perfect Bowline in it. Flora is not stupid, when someone lassoos her horn she immediately throws it off. So it took some time before Ali managed to hook both horns and Flora’s neck and she promptly then pulled backwards and the entire rope was now under the control of Flora. It took a bit of time to actually get it untangled from her to give back to the vet who was looking more and more worried whether she would ever get it back.
Ali idly asked – ‘what normally happens when you stab a cow in the neck?’ – ‘oh christ they normally shake their head around something awful – ah horns’ the vet deduced a problem quickly, before adding ‘Lets give it a try anyway’ in that happy go lucky Irish way.
Leaning over the fence she managed to electrocute her breasts on the electric fence that I assumed wasn’t working. Ali started to hand feed Flora and the vet stabbed a syringe into her neck and as predicted there were horns everywhere and I was the only person on her side of the fence and very quickly at the other end of the field disconnecting the electrical source.
One syringe down, one to go – Ali bravely waved hay again and Ben waved his nuts and Flora was showing interest and a remarkable degree of forgetfulness as the second syringe plunged into her neck. Job done just wait 3 days and we can rub her neck and see if all is well.
The vet arrived early for the test looked through binoculars to make sure all was well and drove away quickly.
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Music of the Month — Water Line by Sage Francis
I just sit there
And let the thoughts flood
And I remind myself, “It’s all right, it’s all good, it’s all love”
It’s not though
Cause there’s a kink in the armor
A pot hole I’m sinking in
While I think of the drama
So I stand up
Start to pace in my living room
Set my eye to the highway knowing that I’ll play chicken soon
There’s a vanity plate with my name on it
There’s a Davey Crockett hat with a Masonic fat cat under it
A musket rifle spitting at my feet
They want me to dance in the middle of the street
And I respect my elders, so I do as I’m told
But I offset the bell curve when I do it with soul
Losing control
Guilty feet do have rhythm
They just dance to the wrong theme music to amuse the villain
Instead of killing, I’ll spare the raccoon
And start filling sandbags as I stare at the moon and let the thoughts flood
Blessed are those who are dammed
When the levee broke
How many choked on the steps to a slow dance?
A staircase to a hug with no hands
Accountability hung out to dry on the line of command
We let the thoughts flood
We remind ourselves “It’s all right, it’s all good, it’s all love”
It’s not though
Cause there’s a kink in the armor
A pot hole I’m sinking in
Sharing a drink with my father
It’s a family affair
The vanity we share
The waterline is rising
All we do is stand there
