Sassy Swingers

Dry cows are known for their cranky escapades.

After all, they don’t have a calf to feed and protect.

They are fat and sassy -- the newly divorced, free-wheeling swingers of the cow herd, leading teenaged yearlings through fences, over hills and on adventures without a care or responsibility.

At least, they refuse to claim their responsibility.

Every living thing on this ranch is a part of the team.

Each blade of grass, horse, dog, ewe and cow pays its way somehow. Even the ducks and the resident blue heron add to this place by giving me joy at their sight.

Fat, shiny cows do not give me joy at their sight.

No calf means a trip to McDonald’s

I could grind them into hamburger and sell it myself, but meat on older cows tends to be watery and tough. It’s a good thing McDonald’s knows how to season and cook the mush out of their burger.

They are better cooks than I.

So my daughter, Abby, and I saddled up on the perfect Sunday afternoon to ride through the calves and gather six dry cows.

One dumped her newborn calf in the creek so it drowned.

One forgot to protect her baby from foraging coyotes.

Four didn’t find the bull last summer.

None of them will find romance on this ranch again.

But this job of collecting failures offered some time together and the joy of feeling a good horse under us.

Abby played tennis after school this spring so even though we live in the same house, we haven’t spent much time together lately.

We took our time, pointing our horses the long way around the pasture.

Sorting cattle on the range uses different skills from a horse than gathering cattle.

I need to get a good look at each cow, not ask her to walk ahead of me.

My horse eased his way, weaving between the drowsy cows.

Each cow gazed at the horse, waiting for the request to move that never came.

Until we found Yellow Tag Seven.

She had three yearling lieutenants in tow, ready to implement her every command, especially if it involved spreading barbed wire.

As we picked our way toward her little bunch in the far corner of the pasture, Number Seven raised her head high, pranced sideways and glanced toward the fence, searching for a getaway route.

Abby and I slowed our horses and fanned out, creating an invisible wall of pressure around the round-hipped bad mother from 50 yards away.

Her only escape route was toward the corral.

The corral sits across the county road so Yellow Seven could still enjoy the bliss of freedom.

She trotted away from the equines, a wake of yearlings following.

Still easing our way behind Yellow Seven, Abby and I spotted the other future Big Macs in a loose bunch along the fence.

All of my cows are in pretty good shape on this June grass, but it is easy to pick out the dry cows from far away.

Abby can spot the shiny, blocky, round-hipped silhouettes as well as I can.

We finessed Yellow Seven and the rest of the degenerates through the herd by suggesting the roadside grass would taste far better than this boring old pasture grass.

We used the angles of old-fashioned geometry to coax them to stroll through two roadside gates and another half mile into the corral gate.

They had done this before and knew their hay reward was waiting.

So is McDonald’s.

These swingers had some fun for a while.

Now they get to contribute to the ranch just like the rest of us.