EMILY FLAKE/The Globe and Mail
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
My family's land northwest of Toronto, our city-slicker-get-away-from-it-all land, is now used by a neighbouring cattle farmer, and that has been a joy.
Getting to know "the girls" has been an unanticipated education in cattle behaviour – their individuality, their relationships; and yes, the cliché, their contentment.
I have come to see them as being perfectly in the moment – even more than dogs and cats, if that's possible. And their rhythmic chewing of cud, their measured breathing, is surely as calming as a Buddhist chant. Everybody should have the privilege of observing cows.
I had been keeping an eye on one cow (No. 12, though she had ditched her numbered ear tag somehow) because she was due to give birth. Our farmer friend asked me to count the herd periodically to make sure she was around, as cows sometimes go off by themselves to give birth and it can be problematic finding them.
Hers was not a large pregnancy, but she was immediately identifiable because her udder was so engorged: "bagged out," the farmer called it. She was readily visible when the herd was on the move, always at the rear, gamely keeping up when they had decide to head for water, or to rush suddenly inexplicably, across the field.
I had been rooting for her, as she'd aborted her first two efforts at pregnancy. I knew that if this one didn't take she would no longer be useful or wanted. The cattle on our property are breeders; they are not destined for the slaughterhouse. But if they don't produce, their fate is sealed.
In the morning, I heard anguished mooing and went outside, where I saw the whole herd gathered around her, agitated.
The vocal distress was of some concern as my farmer friend had explained cows generally give birth in silence, so as not to alert predators, though they may vocalize once the calf stands up (often within 30 minutes of being born!). I offered the others some grass to get them away from her. Fortunately, they were more interested in the grass than her distress and they came right over, giving me a full view.
The tiny calf was on the ground, dead.
I called the farmer, who came right away. You could see in his face the duality of his job: deep caring and resolute practicality.
For the two hours it took for him to return with a tractor, the mother licked her calf gently, encouraging it to move, mooing softly. Periodically, she raised her head in the air and bellowed loudly. Then, back to her efforts with a gentle mooed lullaby, willing her baby to live. With her head she butted the limp body, moving the limbs, giving the calf a momentary illusion of life.
It was heart-stopping to watch. Two hours. After the calf was taken away, she stood bellowing her pain. Later in the afternoon, the farmer brought a bale of hay down to the lower field, and she slowly headed over. Seeming caught between her instinctive response to fresh hay arriving and her distress, she kept stopping and looking over her shoulder.
One cow came over and sniffed her, but otherwise the herd didn't seem to give a damn. Their indifference juxtaposed with her anguish stunned me. I'd often seen them demonstrate affection for one another. Wasn't their very act of sticking together all day, every day with that "herd mentality" some indication of unity? Of group empathy? But the bereft mother stood back from the hay bale alone, calling, while the others ate.
I had been talking to her, letting her know I understood, in some desperate attempt to bridge the human/cow gap and, I confess, some misguided need to compensate for her detached cow friends. Also, I think I needed to share with her that I, too, had lost a baby.
When I walked down to the fence with binoculars to watch her interact with the other cattle at the hay bale, she turned and saw me. As though pulled by some weird connection, she then walked the entire field and stood in front of me, just looking at me as I talked to her. We stood together for maybe three minutes. It was like she knew I knew.
Twice that afternoon she made an effort to rejoin the herd, but stopped, looked back and returned to the birthplace. As the day waned, the herd, in single file on its well-worn path, passed her on its way to the water. There had only been that initial flurry of curiosity and excitement, and then a general decision: Who cares? So what? It reminded me of another species.
But then two cows broke suddenly from the line. They walked up to her, put their heads close to hers and the three of them stood like that, silently, for a long time. When they left to join the others, she didn't follow. But I was elated by their connection.
Anyhow, she will be shipped off to put steaks on our tables.
My farmer friend didn't actually see me sobbing in the field, but I knew he knew. He told me, gently, that when you're dealing with livestock you're dealing with "deadstock" and you have to develop a thick skin. It occurred to me that the definition of "thick skin" might be leather.
Everybody should have the privilege of observing cows.