"I could dance with you till the cows come home. On second thought, I'll dance with the cows till you come home."
- Groucho Marks in the film "Duck Soup," 1933.
So far this season, cows are helping to temper my longing for sled dogs.
Of course, cows outnumber humans by far in this neck of the woods. I do realize that the loose statistic of 47 humans residing in Martinsdale does not include all of the people who live on ranches in the area, up in the foot hills of the Crazies or the Little Belts or the Castles (mountains), or tucked in the cottonwoods and willows along the Musselshell River. But still if you lined up all the humans next to all of those cows (and sheep too), the bovine would win the numbers game hooves down. If you live in Montana you gotta love cows. And I do - the more the mooier (sorry, couldn't resist).
Cows = wide open spaces.
Since I moved into my new little abode, I've had the opportunity to help out on the Cameron Ranch. My friends, Pea and Spunky, work as "cowgirls" on Gil's family spread just at the bottom of the Little Belts.
Both Pea and Spunky moved to Martinsdale last June. Actually, Spunky is the wife of Leonard Llewellyn, the man who owned the house right next door to the Mint Bar where I lived all last year, and Pea is her sister. All three of them recently returned to Martinsdale, Montana, Leonard's birthplace (see my column "The World is Your Oyster"), from their cutting horse ranch in Texas. Leonard wanted to be closer to family and friends; the girls decided to try something "different" and landed a job as ranch hands on Gilbert Cameron's place.
I have the best of both worlds. I get to go play cowgirl on the ranch whenever the whim arises, and I can pass on those days when it's 40 below and the wind is howling at 50 mph.
A few weeks ago, I helped Gil and the girls pregnancy test cows. I was the official record keeper and all around go-get-it girl. I was also in charge of wiping the thick, greasy orange ear wax off the insides of the ears of cows who were missing tags. The wax needed to be cleared away in order to read their branded number, and everyone decided I was just the girl to do it. Pea and I decided that we should start scraping and bottling that wax to make hand cream out of it; man, I had some silky smooth hands after a day of wax removal. Just for your information, this hand cream would be quite expensive because most cows don't stand still while I am trying to decifer their faded number hidden under a gooey layer of ear gum; no, they insist on thrashing their 300-lb. head this way and that way and snorting and spewing spittle in my face. "Karen's Bovine Blend" would be pricey stuff, I tell you.
At the end of the second day of prego-testing, Gil asked if I wanted to give it a try. For those of you who don't know exactly how this process works, I'll give you a quick lo'down. First, Pea and Spunky run around screaming and yelling and waving whips trying to separate momma cows even further away from their beloved babies (who they were weaned from just days before) into a tiny enclosed area, and then into a narrow aisle leading to the chute. The cows are then pushed one at a time into a chute that holds them in place. At this point, the prego-tester proceeds to spread some lubricant and soap on a gloved hand and arm (or some, like Gil, go commando and skip the glove for a more accurate feel). Next, you stand close behind the cow in the chute, lift her tail, and insert your hand and arm into the rectum. The idea is to feel the back of the cow's uterus with your hand. After 30 days of gestation, the fetus should be about the size a softball and feel like a lumpy, bony ball in your hand.
I jumped at the chance to pregnancy test a cow. Gil has a shirt cut just for this reason - he hacked the arm off of a flannel button-up. I removed all of my layers and rolled up my long john shirt to my armpit. I did use a long glove; there is actually a lot of "shit" (pardon the expression) involved in this rectal procedure (imagine that?) and I didn't want to get seriously soiled. Gil explained the exact process, what it would feel like when, and talked me through it. Both cows I checked are expecting. Pea and Spunky are busy planning their showers.
Yesterday, I returned to the ranch to help move a herd of 100-some cows cross-country to another pasture about 5.5 miles away. I had been working on my computer for DAYS - on this new website - and I was starting to go insane. It was 20 degrees and blowing 40 mph but I was dying for fresh air. Pea gave me a 4-wheeler and off we went. My first cattle drive.
Gil drove the "cake truck" which tempts the cows to follow.
I know you might be imaging a giant 5-tiered Almond Amaretto with Chocolate Marzipan cake sitting in the back of Gil's Ford with 100's of black angus following behind in a wide-eyed, sugar-lusting trance (I was), but this cake is really just a boring hard grain pellet that the cows go bovine over.
Once we got to an area too rough for the truck, Pea, Spunky, and John Robidou took charge. We all bushwacked across fields dense with hip-high sagebruch. The sage aroma was awesome; I am still sneezing today. I followed along on my ATV, trying to help where I could.
Four hours later, the cows grazed in their fresh field, and I was covered in dust, dung, and cow spit.
I still have a big smile on my face. Pushing cattle reminds me of the good 'ole days running my dogs.
