How to relieve stress

As 2020 proceeds on, hurling obstacles and challenges left and right, apparently there's a growing trend on how to alleviate stress.

Hug a cow.

Yes, really.

This article offers details: "Cow-hugging, an alleged wellness fad, has people cuddling farm animals to relieve stress": "According to the BBC, the practice of cuddling cows is supposed to reduce stress in humans by releasing the bonding hormone oxytocin. Cows are chosen specifically for their warm body temperatures and calm demeanor, the outlet reported."

To be fair, I can't argue. It's one of the reasons I loved milking bovines. Warm body temperatures, calm demeanor (and fresh milk) – what's not to love?

Now granted, not every cow we've ever owned has fit the blissful category the article describes: "Cows are very relaxed animals, they don’t fight, they don’t get in trouble," a farm owner who promotes the practice told BBC. "You come to the fields and we have some special hugging cows and you can lay next to [them] – people think it's very relaxing." (In fact, we've had a few bad-tempered critters who soon found a new home in our freezer.)

But my Jerseys – ah, those were lovely creatures, ready for a cuddle at any time.

 I've seen worse advice on how to handle stress.

Little orphaned Anna

We lost Polly, our Jersey cow, yesterday afternoon.

Her death was completely unexpected. After looking so ill last week, she seemed completely recovered after receiving antibiotics. She was eating, chewing her cud, nursing her calf.

And then boom, she was down, dead before we knew it. Don removed her halter. After all, she won't be needing it anymore.

A kind neighbor brought his backhoe and dug her grave.

But unlike when Matilda died – taking her unborn calf with her – Polly leaves behind little Anna, less than two months old and far from being weaned. And Polly was my last trained milker.

However Amy (Matilda’s daughter) offers hope. She’s not trained to milk, but she’s lead-trained. She’s also – like Matilda – something of a “universal donor.” So yesterday afternoon we experimentally led Amy into the squeeze chute and I got some milk from her udder without a problem. By “some,” I mean a single squirt from all four teats. Since she’s actively nursing her own little calf, it's not like she’s walking around with a full bag waiting for me to milk her. For that to happen, we need to separate her from her calf at night. But at least she wasn’t fighting me trying to milk her. Amy has a sweet, gentle disposition, just like her mama did.

The squeeze chute was missing a bottom (the boards were rotted when we got it)...

...so Don cut two sheets of OSB and we slid those into position.

We ended up putting Amy, Amy's calf, and little orphaned Anna into the corral together.

We had hopes Anna would willingly nurse off of Amy, but the grieving baby doesn’t seem inclined to do so, even though she's undoubtedly hungry. Instead, so far she has spent the entire evening and night lowing pitifully for her mother. It's heartbreaking.

We always keep calf milk replacer on hand, so today we’ll bottle-feed Anna. She’s not going to take that indignity lying down, so it will be a bit of a rodeo until she understands what we’re trying to do, but at her young age there’s no possible way she can get sufficient nutrition from solid foods.

We’ll also start separating Amy from the two calves at night, and I’ll milk her in the mornings, with all the milk going to Anna (fresh milk is always better than milk replacement).

In the meantime, we’re all mourning Polly’s loss. Matilda and Polly, our two beloved Jerseys. Sometime farm life isn’t much fun.

Update on Polly

So many people have offered prayers, consolation, and advice concerning our sick Jersey cow Polly -- thank you all! I'm happy to report she seems much better.

She still had me worried yesterday afternoon. I stepped out into the woods and watched her -- she was nibbling the still-short grass, which was a good sign -- but she was still hunching and passing bloody urine on a frequent basis. (Don't be alarmed by how bony she looks -- that's just a "Jersey" thing.)

Last evening when Don went to feed, all the other animals bellied up to the feed boxes -- except Polly. At least, at first. After a few minutes and some calling from us, she made her way under the awning and, to our delight, began eating. (That's her calf Anna with her.)

This morning I went to feed the animals, and saw only four cows with their heads in the feed boxes. Four cows, not five. My heart sank a little -- where was Polly? But to my delight, she was right there with the rest of them, eating vigorously, at the far end where I didn't see her at first.

A couple hours later, I hooked her up to the lead rope and put her into the squeeze chute again. This time Don administered the antibiotic shots, and a very fine job he did of it too. After that, I backed Polly out and returned her to the herd. Her eyes are clear and the swelling in her jaw is down, and her urine looks much more normal.

We'll finish out the bottle of antibiotics on her tomorrow and keep an eye on her, but it looks like the crisis is over. She seems well on the road to recovery, thanks to the awesome power of modern medicine.

And reader support.

Polly is sick

Polly, our remaining purebred Jersey cow, is sick.

Yesterday morning when I went to feed the critters, I noticed Polly wasn't among them. I found her in an adjacent pen, looking miserable. Though she was facing away from me, something seemed unusual about her head.

I entered the pen and was horrified to find her face entirely puffed up, her eyes like slits and her jaw with a huge soft bulge. I ran into the house and placed calls to every large-animal vet in the region, only to find none available.

Meanwhile a man stopped by to visit some neighbors. Luis has something of a local reputation as a "horse whisperer" -- he's magic with equines -- and as it turns out, he's highly experienced with cattle as well. He looked at Polly and said she had a large infection, and recommended we get an antibiotic called LA 200.

We ran a string around Polly's midsection, a method for estimating weight in cattle. By this determination, we guessed she weighs 927 lbs.

I went into town and purchased the antibiotic. Luis promised to come out this morning to show us the best way to administer it.

This morning Polly's swollen face looked better, but she kept hunching over and passing bloody urine. Not good.

At least she's on her feet. A cow off her feet is very seriously ill indeed. But she's off her food, lethargic, and often just stands slumped.

Luis arrived this morning, and I walked Polly into the squeeze chute. LA-200 supposedly stings going in, and I didn't want anyone (bovine or human) getting hurt in the process.

Based on Polly's weight and the recommended dosage, Luis filled the syringe...

...then he injected her intramuscularly in three different places (apparently the medicine is best administered spread around).

Polly jerked a bit, but she's lethargic and didn't fight. I backed her out of the chute without a problem and returned her to the corral.

We'll give her the next few shots ourselves, repeating the dosage for the next couple of days. According to LA-200 information, she should show "marked improvement" in the next 24 to 48 hours.

I don't want to lose Polly so soon after losing Matilda. We'll be watching her like a hawk.

Spring has sprung

Well, it looks like the sun has set on another winter.

Suddenly the temps are well above freezing during the day, and the snow is melting rapidly. Bodies of water are losing their grip of ice.

Everywhere we go, we hear the chatter of running water.

Sometimes it's more than chatter. Across the canyon, I heard the distant thundering of an ephemeral creek.

Yesterday afternoon, I just missed taking a photo of our neighbors riding horses along the road. Both these fine people have faced frightening health challenges in the last year, and to see them enjoying the simple pleasure of a horseback ride on an early spring afternoon was a welcome sight indeed. I captured evidence of their horses' passing.

Suddenly we're dripping with birds: red-winged blackbirds, robins, kildeer, meadowlarks, and of course swans flying over us toward the lake.

Everything is white and brown, blue and green as the snow recedes.

With this increased pulse of life, of course, we now find ourselves looking for any excuse to get outside. Taking Mr. Darcy for walks is one of those excuses of which he highly approves.

We dehorned little Anna, who was understandably not amused by the duct-tape helmet. We kept both mama and baby in the barn during this time.

Later, when we could finally clip off the duct tape, Polly and Anna stepped back out into the welcoming sunshine.

Meanwhile the rest of the cows and calves lounged in the warmth.

I decided to investigate the garden, much of which is still under snow. Here's the blueberry bed:

Some of the strawberry tires, with the garlic boat in the background:

I walked into the orchard and was distressed to see our young Gala apple tree on its side.

It must have just happened -- new buds were still looking healthy -- and probably occurred during a windy blast a couple of days before.

At least its roots were still (mostly) in the soil. I straightened the tree and re-staked it from four directions. I don't know if it will survive, so we'll see.

The rest of the orchard looked to be in roaring good health, so that's a relief.

I'm getting the itch to plant something, but it's too early even to start seeds in the house (since we couldn't transplant until late May or early June), so I'll try to be patient. But with spring in the air, it's hard going.

Polly's little Anna

With our crop of winter calves, we'd been watching Polly, who frankly looked ready to POP. Jerseys get all misshapen just before giving birth, so we're usually not caught by surprise.

So every night I cleaned out the pen and prepared it with soft, fluffy hay, a sort of birthing chamber. Each night I tucked Polly (or whatever pregnant cow looked ready to pop) inside, the logic being I'd rather a middle-of-the-night calf be born on dry hay than outside where the snow is deep.

Polly was so huge and her udder so swollen, that during the day when she was out with the rest of the herd, I checked her every couple of hours.

Yesterday morning when I let her out of the barn pen, she was fine and not in labor...but I happened to notice her tail was a bit kinked. Sigh. I should have known that was a sign of early labor, but I didn't follow my instinct.

So a couple hours later when I heard her telltale soft mooing, I checked and saw she had a long strand of mucus hanging out her back end. "Into the barn you go, sweetheart," I told her as I clipped her halter to a lead rope. She followed me docilely enough until I tried to put her in the pen. Then she balked and backed out. That's when I realized -- she wasn't in labor, she'd already dropped her calf. But where was it?

Turns out she had somehow managed to squeeze into the narrow spot between the tractor and the feedboxes, and dropped her calf there.

And now she could barely reach it, much less lick it dry. So I picked up the calf and carried it into the pen, while Don clipped Polly to the lead rope and walked her behind. Soon mama and baby were safely ensconced on the dry hay in the sheltered pen, and she got right to work licking her new baby dry.

The weather has been snowy though not particularly cold (about 29F), but having the newborn sheltered is important.

The baby is a heifer, and when I asked Don what we should name her, he said "Anna." Why Anna? "Because she's Polly's Anna," he replied.

(Polly's Anna. Nudge nudge. Get it?) So Anna it is.

The chickens wandered through to peck at whatever goo Polly dropped in the straw.

Polly is an excellent mother. It's always wise to be wary with a new mama cow since hormones can do funny things to their behavior, but she was calm as I moved around, taking photos.

Pretty soon little Anna tried to struggle to her feet, but of course had the usual "crash and burn" tumbles until she got the hang of it.

Eventually she made it to her feet.

Meanwhile the other cows kept staring at the pen doors, knowing something interesting was going on inside -- even the calves.

Chickens love hanging around newborn calves because they love the resulting muck.

Soon little Anna was nuzzling Polly in all the wrong places, trying to figure out where the udder was. ("I know it's around here somewhere!") It's fascinating to watch instinct at work.

Aha! Success!

When I checked in later, Polly had dropped the placenta and was in the process of eating it.

Anna is such a pretty little calf.

The weather is fairly beastly today, but tomorrow should be much improved and we'll spring Polly from the barn then, and let Anna meet her herd-mates.

Four out of five babies so far. We're keeping an eye on Pixie, Polly's adult calf, who's last.