Tagging Calves

It's been a busy summer but things are beginning to slow down a bit, so we can catch up on a few of the chores that got put off in the rush.  The mama cows have been doing their job with only a little help from the men and we have a fine crop of fall calves running around in the fields.  To make keeping up with the records on these babies easier,  each calf is usually tagged with an ear-tag that corresponds to its mama's ear-tag.  Since we raise Angus cattle and they are all black, it's a little hard to tell one calf from another unless you do something.   In the rush of late summer hay and tobacco cutting we are woefully behind in tagging.

Hubby and son decided that it was time to sort this mess out before it got worse. 

When the babies are newborn, it's not a real problem.  The little fellows follow close to their mama and it's easy to see who belongs to who.  It's also easy to grab the little ones and quickly put a big yellow tag in their ear.

However........

Hubby and son stood at the fence looking over the fine crop of calves.  "Ummm.  Some of them have a little growth on them."  muttered son.  "Not a problem.  You can handle it." reassured Hubby.  "Have you got the tagger?", queried son.  "It's in the ranger, ready to go.  Let's get started." affirmed Hubby. 

They started for the field.  The plan was for Hubby to drive the ranger until they identified a baby needing a tag.  Hubby would then drive the ranger next to the calf, son would jump out and grab the baby, holding it until Hubby could get out and tag the calf.  Easy enough when the calf is a week or two old.  Unfortunately, some of these "babies" now weighed close to 200 pounds--son weighs about 180 pounds.  Let the games begin!

Hubby drove off and had soon spotted a calf.  He eased up beside the calf, who is now on high alert, and yells "grab him son!"  Calf and son both leap at the same time.  Son grabs frantically and feels his hands slide down the smooth back of the fleeing calf.  Landing on his hands and knees he straightens up and brushes futilely at the grass stains on his jeans.  "You've got to move quicker next time." encourages Hubby.  "Uh huh" mutters son.

Soon they are approaching another calf--another near miss.  "Son, you need to go for the head." instructs Hubby.  "Well, Dad, that's the part that's leaving first." retorts son.

The next try goes better with son getting a better grip.  However, they are pretty evenly matched and it becomes a bit of a struggle.  Calf is determined to leave and Son is try to flip him over so he can hold him on the ground.  Hubby jumps into the fray and grabs for an ear to tag it.  About that time the calf gives another lunge and throws Son.  Hubby then loses the grip on the tagger and calf and tag part company.  Son looks up and shakes his head. "At least the tagger came loose or we'd be chasing the calf down to get the tagger back."

The tagging continues with lots of mutters and oaths with Hubby and Son slowly getting the job done.  As the afternoon continues, tempers get a little short.  Finally, they approach a late calf that is still little enough to grab easily.  Son corners the little fellow and reaches out to grab him.  The calf, sensing that he's trapped wheels quickly and makes a dash for freedom.  Son grabs him across the chest and slips his knee behind him to keep him still.  Bucking and squirming the little calf wiggles lose and heads between Son's legs.  Trying to keep from letting him go, Son squeezes his legs together and effectively makes a head catch, just like a cattle chute.  "Tag him Dad!" Son yells.  Hubby jumps in and swiftly tags the bellowing baby. 

Hubby steps back, takes one look at his son and starts to laugh.  The calf had evidently been in a fresh pile of manure and in the excitement had probably added a little of his own.  In his dash for freedom through son's legs, he had effectively squeegeed himself clean on son's jeans.  Son took a tentative step and realized that he was saturated to the skin.  "Son," murmurs Hubby, "I think maybe we've done enough for tonight.  Why don't you head to the house."

Son looked up sadly, "I would, but I'm pretty sure my wife won't let me in!"

We should make washing machine commercials.