Animal Spotlight: A Fiery Redhead We All Love...

"She's gonna jump!!" I yelled at Doug as I watched the new Irish Dexter heifer neatly tuck all four legs beneath her like a million dollar Grand Prix jumping horse and launch herself at the wall of the stall. "Wow, her form is beautiful," I exclaimed. "If she was a hunter jumper prospect," I added with a growl relieved she'd misjudged the distance and not managed to sail over the barn wall. Sona and Chloe stood calmly in their halters watching this show as Doug and I scrambled to board the stall up higher to keep our new girl from escaping. In her defense, we'd just unloaded her from the farm of her birth to our stall in the middle of a thunderstorm on Memorial Day weekend in 2017. "I don't think we'll get a halter on this one," Doug said as we secured the barn.

We indeed did NOT get a halter on the rambunctious young beast. Her breeder explained that she'd always wanted to name a cow Bonnie, and thus our fiery redhead was registered as such. Bonnie has been a little odd with her head since day one. She loves pets and scratches in the field as long as you stay below her ears and neck. Shoulders only, people! The first time we ever caught her in the headgate, she immediately became a giant pogo stick slamming and jumping up and down in the chute and bucking like a champion bronc. She fell and had to be let out the emergency hatch! The next time we sent her through, I suggested we simply use the squeeze and not catch her head. Sure enough, despite throwing snot at me and snorting her displeasure, she stood reasonably still, got her vaccinations, and went about her business. That is how we work Bonnie to this day. Just another example of knowing your animals and adapting accordingly.

Now that she's in her prime, Bonnie is rarely pictured without a calf on her side. Though Irish Dexters are known for their excellent mothering abilities, Bonnie is an exemplary mother often nursing other cows' babies and standing sentry over the newborns. Bonnie did not come to motherhood easily, however. For a soul who loves mothering as much as Bonnie, she really hates the necessary act to get there. She ignores and dodges even the most persistent bulls, and as a heifer, we were concerned she'd never breed. Finally, she settled and carried her first pregnancy like a champ. We'd planned on fall calves, but thanks to Bonnie playing hard to get, her calf was due at the end of January and our nerves were building. The day Bonnie's calf was born started as one of those warmish days in a Kentucky January that can't be trusted. Sure enough, after a long, balmy Saturday of rain, the temperatures plummeted below freezing as darkness fell and the creek was raging through the holler. We trusted that Bonnie would bed down the calf that she'd lovingly cleaned and nursed. The next day, Doug went to check the cows and couldn't find the calf. He searched until darkness fell. I searched the second day while Doug was working. I noticed Bonnie kept going down to stand at the water. "I bet the calf got washed away," I told Doug tearfully on the phone as he was driving home. Despite looking with a flashlight long after dark, the calf was still nowhere to be found.

By the time I got home from work on Tuesday afternoon, I was on a recovery mission for the calf's body. I didn't want coyotes coming and being attracted to the other calves and flocks. I told Doug that I planned to walk the entire back 12.5 acres to find the carcass. I set out along each fencerow carefully looking between brambles and zigzagging the open field. When Doug called for an update, I told him I was walking to the top corner of the field and then calling it a bust. I trudged up the steep hill with sadness heavy in my heart. Our first year calving had ended with a massive failure. As I got closer to the two gnarled hedge apples warding the corner post, I saw something dark near the ground. My heart rate and feet kicked up their pace. I rushed to the spot and gasped. There beneath a multifloral rose stood the calf! He was frozen in position ice glistening along his back, no movement detected. My heart seized in my chest. "The poor little thing is frozen solid," I whispered with a cloud of breath into the cold air. I stepped forward to stroke its fur, and then....IT BLINKED.

"Oh my God it's alive!" I screamed to no one but myself and the frigid calf. I Immediately went into mommy mode, "It's okay little baby, i've got you." I kept chanting those words "it's okay it's okay it's okay" like a mantra more to myself than the calf as my adrenaline surged and I picked up the tiny body to bring it quickly back to the herd who'd taken shelter from the cold in the barn. About halfway down the hill I realized an important fact about calves-even tiny Irish Dexter ones. They're heavy. Carrying the little ball of long legs and fur in the front of my bundled up person was being tiresome quickly. I set the baby down on the frosty ground so I could rest, and called Doug at work to pant out my discovery. "Just be careful getting that baby across the creek. Don't hurt yourself, " he reminded me before I hung up. For the remainder of the journey, I hoisted the calf across my shoulders more evenly distributing the weight and allowing me to see where I was placing my boots. At the creek crossing I pleaded aloud, "Guide my feet." I didn't put a step out of place as I crossed the creek and started yelling for the cows. "BONNIE! I have your baby! Your BABY!" Bonnie rounded the corner of the barn at the top of the field on two hooves bellowing out a deafening moo. She thundered down the hill toward me with her bovine buddies hot on her trail. Not wanting to be trampled, I carefully placed the calf on the ground and stepped back as Bonnie skidded to a stop. I held my breath as she promptly sniffed him, bawled, and knocked him three feet across the cold grass. "STOP!" I screamed as she kept swiping at the calf with her head. I waved my arms and the herd, excited with the commotion, ran back up to the barn. Thankfully, Bonnie ran with them. I didn't need a battle with an irate momma cow on my hands. My phone rang. "Doug, she won't take the baby back!" I cried. "Let's just get it to the barn honey, and then I'll lock them up close together. I'll tie her up if I have to. I'm almost home," he reported.

Dejectedly, I picked up my little friend and slugged up the hill toward the barn nearly to the end of my 400 yard journey that felt like 400 miles. I'd no sooner reached the barn door than I heard gravel being thrown as the tires of the Gator slid to a stop. Off jumped Doug who grabbed the calf from my sore arms and quickly set about creating a makeshift pen for mother and babe. I was shaking as I sat down on an old feeding trough and watched as Doug herded a rather infuriated Bonnie into the pen. For a few tense moments, she dodged and snorted at the calf. Miraculously, the calf's mouth was warm and he still had a suck reflex. With enough cajoling (and quite a few threats from Doug), Bonnie finally let the calf nurse. We could see the moment the oxytocin rushed into her mind. Her eyes softened and she began calling softly for the baby I'm sure she thought was lost. In the Christmas hymn Away in the Manger, a verse reads, "the cattle are lowing, the Baby awakes." I don't think I fully understood what "lowing" was until I stood feet away from a momma cow talking quietly to her precious little one. The lowing of a mother cow is the warmest, deepest sound you could imagine coming so softly from such a large animal. It's almost like a hum, and to me, it sounds like a lullaby. At this moment, i broke down into wracking sobs. The adrenaline was gone and I the gravity of the ordeal came crashing down. Doug just shook his head and put his arm around my shoulders and said, "You did good, honey." No, I thought. Bonnie did good.

Bonnie went on to successfully raise that little little calf and several more since. I think in that moment, she vowed to be the best momma she could be, and her years thus far have been a testament to that as she's raised many quality steers for our farm. My hope for Bonnie is that she will finally give the world a little heifer who she'll raise to be every bit the momma she is. We'd love to see a line of wonderful bovine mommas continue for generations to come.