Porcupined Plans

The day started like so many others, with a plan.

Like so many others, the plan changed – or, more accurately, evolved with circumstances.

A yearling was in the neighbor’s pasture so I asked my partners in crime, Erik and Mary, to help get it back to the right pasture.

With two riders and a gate person, it shouldn’t take long, but we gave ourselves plenty of time.

Like teenagers, yearlings desperately need friends.

Like teenagers, sometimes yearlings get tired of their current friends, so they find new ones.

Like teenagers, sometimes they view fences as rules to be broken instead of secure boundaries.

Like teenagers, they become attached to their new friends quickly so sorting one away from the rest of the herd can be tricky.

It didn’t take long to find the rebellious steer.

Our horses encouraged him to find the gate and soon he rejoined his Lisa-approved friend group.

We finished that job quickly so we decided while we were still saddled up, we might as well check the cows over at the summer pasture.

After all, it was a beautiful day.

The cows were lounging contentedly near the creek, just as I like to see them.

Except for the black calf with a white beard.

Apparently, this calf had attempted to make friends with a porcupine instead of sticking with my approved friend group.

Those quills needed to come out now -- before they became infected and before the calf starved to death.

Others are, but I’m not enough of a cowboy to rope a 450-pound calf, sit on its head and rip quills from his chin.

I needed to squeeze him in a chute, spray vinegar on the quills and gently tug them out.

Unfortunately, the squeeze chute was three miles away.

Erik and I opened the hog panels and old bent-up metal gates of my makeshift summer pasture corral, crossing our fingers that the wire fences would hold.

Then we set out to bring the calf about a half mile from the creek to the corral.

We brought a couple of other cows for company and the calf’s mama soon joined the procession. We smiled at our good luck.

Until the calf ignored his mother and jumped through the wire corral fence.

We loaded the cow into the trailer and went after the calf.

He jumped through the corral fence three more times.

I couldn’t help grinning as we raced fast horses across the prairie after him, circled wide and finessed him back to the corral, but we were training him to break those fence-imposed rules.

And it was getting dark.

We let the mama out to join her calf, then went back the ranch, gathered up reinforcement panels and decided to try again the next morning.

Erik graciously postponed his plans for the next day.

The creek sparkled in the morning sun and the cattle were spread out finding breakfast when we arrived to shore up the corral.

By the time we brought the horses, the cattle were clustered, amenably chewing their cud.

Erik soon spotted the bearded calf with his mother.

The race was on.

They wanted to stay with their friends.

We wanted them in the trailer.

Our horses wanted to do whatever we asked.

We asked them to sprint, dodge, angle and push.

The reinforced corral rejected the calf’s attempts to clear the top rail, offering the only respite in the trailer.

Back at the ranch, nose tongs held the calf’s head still.

Vinegar dissolved the quills, releasing the vacuum.

Pliers gently slipped the quills from tender skin.

The calf found his mother’s udder.

We breathed deep relief and returned to our rearranged plans for the day.