Crying Foul

In the course of a busy life, it had been a while since I paid a visit to Uncle Bubba. He was in good spirits and told me of a recent anecdote regarding a foul cow. It was half past twilight when the phone rang. The Duke was on the other end citing that he had a cow down and asking Bubbie to go out with him to get her stood back up. He said she’d more than likely gone foul and needed help to get back to her feet. Of course Bubbie was all too eager to join his friend in another event. Hanging up the phone he slipped on his drawers, kissed Sweet Pea and walked out the door. The Duke pulled up in his GMC Sierra and Bubbie climbed up in. They had an hour ride to get out the Williams farm were the Duke leases some beautiful rolling green pastures.

The Williams farm is a long standing working farm that takes full advantage of the southern extended growing season; growing corn silage to mid summer and green beans in the same fields in late summer. The remainder of the season they alternate fields planting rye grass of which the Duke’s cattle graze and get fat. Cattle are moved from one large pasture to the next as they graze down (and fertilize) the landscape while the rye grows nearly knee high, green and strong in the adjacent dale.

Entering the property there are two very large silos that can normally be seen from a long way off, standing as enormous monuments to ancient farm gods. On this night however, these cylindrical towers had disappeared in the dark until the Dukes headlights momentarily glance off of them in the opaque distance. Driving out through resting, sleep flushed bovine, looking sleepily surprised at the whirring diesel weaving slowly past but too lazy to bother to stir, the cowboys rolled to the far side of the dark dale.

“She’s on the far side of the next pasture.” the Duke croaked. “There’s a hard road that runs along that edge of the property and some folks have moved out there over the years. They’ve moved there and then don’t like living by a farm so they call and bellyache over every little thing. It’s been some deal; we have to fight with animal rights people of all things.” The Duke says grumbling.

At the edge of the edge of the property, at the end of a narrow white beam of a spotlight they found her. She was under a stand of scrub oaks laid out prone on her side along side the barbed wire fence. As one may or may not know, cows nibble the branches off of trees at cow height which is about 5 feet high. This makes a grown man stoop to walk beneath the low limbs. The Duke and Bubbie crouched and stumbled through the dark shadows adjacent to the spotlight beam to the waiting cow. The Duke cautiously gave her the once over and looked puzzled as he checked her teeth and felt her legs. He couldn’t surmise any reason why she might be down, but she obviously couldn’t right herself. Bubbie watched the Duke perform his inspection waiting for instruction.

“If she gets up, make sure you have a clear path out of here and get out of the way cause she’ll slap run you over.”

Just then a car arrived over the rise on the hard road and turning its intrusive lights towards the pasture, ground to a halt at the fence line. An older, white-haired gentleman appeared from around the headlights in a white polo shirt and tweed shorts. Peering over the fence he was first to speak:

“Do you think you’ll get her up?”
“Don’t know yet. Who are you?” the Duke muttered.

“My name’s Buford, Buford Wilson. I’m the one that called about the cow. I live down the way, but my daughter lives right up the road here and she’s the one that saw her first and told me about it.”

“Uh-huh” he Duke grunted, still looking down at the foul cow. After a long pause the Duke slowly looked the old man up and down and then turned to face him.

“I appreciate the notification, but what I don’t appreciate is folks reporting us to the animal rights activists over every little thing!” his stern tone setting old Buford aback. “I treat these cattle better than my own kids, but sometimes the cattle biddness is a hard biddness. Sometimes a cow gets old and sick and dies; just like people.”

“Oh, I have no doubt…” Buford retorted in his most apologetic tone.

After several exhaustive attempts at lifting and pushing the heavy cow to her feet, the Duke, breathing heavy with hands on his hips stared at Bubbie in contemplation.

“I don’t know as you’re going to get her up.” Buford lamented.

The Duke grunted in disgust. It was more aversion that old Buford was still watching over them in his tweed shorts than failing at righting the cow.

“Bub, get the rope out of the truck; we’re gonna have’ta drag ‘er out of these trees where we can get some leverage on her.” the Duke spoke, exasperated. It was growing apparent to the two of them that there was something perhaps more seriously wrong with the cow than just being foul. Due to the tight quarters and position of the animal, her head facing the truck, the Duke looped the rope around her neck and Bubbie ran the other end up and tied it to the trailer hitch.

“You’re going to drag her by her neck?” old Buford asked cautiously.

“What choice do we have?” the Duke barked. “You’d be surprised how strong that thick neck is and we only have 6 or 7 yards to pull her out of here. Bubbie, get in the truck and give it a slow steady pull and if we get ‘er going don’t stop.”

As Bubbie crouched and stumbled under the shadowy low tree limbs back to the truck, he considered the prospects of the next few minutes; he smiled to himself recalling the Duke’s statement to old Buford that he treats his cattle better than his own kids. He climbed up into the pickup and turned the diesel over. Pulling the shift lever into gear he eased his foot off of the brake and onto the accelerator pedal. The truck rolled slowly forward has Bubbie craned his neck to watch out of the back window. Looking down the spotlight beam he could see the taught rope disappear into the trees. He then saw the Duke appear from the shadows, stooped but motioning to keep pulling ahead and then he saw the cow pop out of the dark stand of scrub, skidding along the ground on her side. Once free from the brush she slid easily over the dewy green grass. On the Dukes command Bubbie stopped the truck and then backed up to take the tension off of the rope. The Duke slipped the noose from the big cow’s neck and the two cowboys tried in vain to stand the exhausted cow.

As they paused, Bubbie looked up into the vastness of the enormous night sky and took a deep breath; the stars numbering in the millions. Tilting his head further back he felt so small and insignificant there in the wide open pasture, swallowed by the negritude of the warm night. He heard the cow breathing heavily and the Dukes feet shuffle across the grass.

“We’ll have to leave her here and hope the coyotes don’t get her until I can get the vet back here to look at ‘er.” the Duke said, walking back to the pickup truck.

The agricultural business can be a rough and gritty business. In Bubbie’s view, most Americans don’t even consider what sacrifice it takes to grow, nurture, and harvest the food that we eat with so much enjoyment and gluttony. While we sit in the comfort of our homes watching TV, or with our friends in a barroom or coffee shop, the farmer and ranchers may very well be working, and doing some rather unpleasant things. They serve at the pleasure of Mother Nature, no matter how seemingly fickle or cruel and at the oversight of countless agencies—both governmental and private watchdogs. Thank God for the folks who have chosen the agricultural profession; their love of nature and independently determined spirit prevails when most of us would quit.