The Haxtun-Fleming Herald - What can we reason but from what we know? -Alexander Pope

Well, she’s gone. I don’t know what I ever made me fall for her in the first place. Can’t remember what I saw in her. I must have been crazy. Ten years of battle, disagreements and constant irritation. The noise of tires taking her down the gravel driveway was music to my ears. I never really liked her, anyway.

Yep. Old cow number 68 is gone. What’s that? You thought I was talking about something else? Shame on you.

Number 68 was the most cantankerous, all around mean four-legged creature ever to roam this earth. For a decade every single activity involving our little band of mama cows had to include plans on how to avoid a hassle with her. Why put up with it all, you might ask? It’s a long story.

Many years ago, the world decided I shouldn’t be in the cow business. At least it seemed that way because everything in the world seemed to be going wrong. I sold them all and got a surprise. I kind of liked not having cows around. It gave me time to spend the money they had been loosing on the rodeo trail instead. Net profit remained the same, but I got to eat a lot more concession stand hamburgers.

One fateful day, unbeknownst to me, a secret meeting took place between my wife and my father. I believe both were getting tired of me being gone all the time, chasing the gold. They hatched a scheme that would darn sure keep me home. The sneaky pair decided Sue and I would buy my father’s heifer calves that fall, bring them home and start a cow herd. If ever there was a pair not to argue with it was these two. I left the ranks of the cowboy and joined the group called cowmen.

When the heifers arrived at our place, we ran them through the chute, putting our brand on and adding a numbered ear tag. One by one each heifer walked docilely down the alley towards the chute to happily become part of the new herd. All except one. One big yellow colored critter kept hiding in the back until only her and one other remained. Our personal relationship began when she put me over the fence twice before going into the chute. The last tag to be used was number 68. Finally, we got it in her ear. She cleared the corral of helpers as she left the chute.

Number 68 proceeded to produce nine calves in as many years. Tagging those calves each spring bordered on suicide every time. Branding, weaning, preg checking, all involved at least one encounter with the big yellow monster. All who came to help invariably would ask, “ Why don’t you get rid of her?”

“Great idea,” was always my reply, “I’ll go get the pickup and trailer. Put her in the load out pen for me.” No one ever even tried.

Several pasture encounters involved a horse and ropes. A couple of my horses submitted their resignations right in the middle of such a project.

Our final bout involved her, a big black calf out of the neighbors bull, a corral fence, rope and the tip of one of my fingers. Loosing body parts has a way of motivating a man to do what he should have done long ago. After a battle that probably rivaled Custer’s last negotiations with our Native Americans, old number 68 was in the trailer, never to set foot on the Hodgson range again. She probably will soon be appearing at a Burger Hut near you. Grasp the bun tightly and chew quickly. She’s never stayed in one place very long.

Number 68 will not be forgotten around here. My shortened finger is a constant reminder. So are the eight heifer calves she produced that have joined the herd. Ever heard the saying, “Like mother, like daughter?”

It’s getting harder to get help working the cows every year. Can’t understand why.