Tales From Home: Dangerous Livestock
Jun 17, 2020 12:41:14 GMT
Ozarks Tom, themotherhen, and 8 more like this
Post by bretf on Jun 17, 2020 12:41:14 GMT
Tom mentioned once he'd like to hear more about my dad. It made me think of things he'd done and decided I'd write this one down.
Tales From Home: Dangerous Livestock
When I was growing up, cows and chickens were a constant at our home. At one time or another, we also had livestock of nearly every standard variety available. Thank God, this didn’t include any huge birds, bison, and I don’t know what else. The “exotics”.
I got my bruises, some my fault, some due to slow reflexes. More often than not, they came from milking the cow when I was lost in my head and wasn’t ready when she kicked. Some were from trying to ride the calves. Others just from general work around the animals.
From day one, it was obvious I had to watch out for the shorthorn bull. Still, Dad warned me to keep an eye out for him any time I was in the pasture and barnyard. At one point, we put a ring in the bull’s nose, (I’m reminded of him often when I see young people who do that to themselves). We hung a three-foot piece of chain from the ring. By the way, that length could be off a bit, you know, fifty years or so have passed. It took experimentation to get the chain just right. The bull figured out how to flip a slightly longer chain over his neck. And chain was an expenditure, so Dad didn’t want to use any more than was strictly necessary. Anyway, the final touch to the project was a single strand of electric wire around the pasture.
I’m afraid in the modern world, I might have to get counseling for admitting to the glee I felt when we sat back and watched the bull touch the hot-wire with the chain. Counseling or not, after that day, I could do the chores without being prepared for the thirty-yard dash at any instant. However, I checked the fence for shorts every couple of days to be certain. Dad and technology had made it safe.
Another animal I had to watch out for was a buck sheep. He never liked me and I never liked him. Being primarily into cows (they were Dad’s bank account most of the time), we’d built the hay manger for them. That *#@% buck would come through the slats in the manger when I was feeding. One day, he pinned me against the back of the hay yard, his unyielding head against my thigh, trying to drive me through the planks. I was small, but tough, but I couldn’t get away from him. It took Dad with the pitchfork to free me. The buck limped away with blood streaming from four puncture wounds. Thank God Dad got out of the sheep business after that year.
It seems hard to believe but we had other evil creatures that inflicted more pain and had me warier than the bull or the buck: geese. They seemed to delight in attacking me when I did the chores. I can’t imagine how many eggs broke in the bucket when I was hot-footing it to escape. I started carrying an ax handle when I did the chores. When the hissing fiends came at me, I’d do my best Harmon Killebrew imitation. (Harmon grew up in a small town an hour from home, and throughout my youth held the number five spot in home runs in MLB). I’d swing for all I was worth, right at the goose’s head. I don’t know why, but I never killed one no matter how hard I made contact. They got smart and would duck and weave so I had to adjust my swing. Often, the confrontation ended in a stalemate, each side grudgingly giving ground. Damn birds.
One morning, they proved just how mean and dangerous they were.
Dad always milked the cow in the morning, and I usually milked in the evening. One morning, Mom woke me and said I needed to milk. I know she said more, but I can’t remember what it was. I dressed and went to the kitchen. Dad was at the table in obvious pain. As I got my coat, the milk bucket, and wash water, he warned me, “Watch out for that damn goose.”
Dad had gone out as usual and the goose was in the entryway to the barn. She had a nest somewhere there and was intent on guarding it. Neck extended, wings outstretched, she hissed at him, warning him to back off.
So, he tried to kick her. Big mistake.
She flapped her wing down at the offending foot, catching it solidly on the top, where all the small bones are. Dad saw stars and certainly uttered words I can’t put in this story. He grabbed the planks lining the entryway to keep from going down. Dad, usually able to make the right decision, made a wrong one then, his second big mistake of the morning.
Barely able to stand, he tried to kick the goose with his other foot. It was as ineffective as the first attempt and had the same end result. The goose whacked him on the top of his second foot. Somehow, while he clung to the planks, he was able to grab the goose by the bill – she must’ve realized he was hurt and moved in to deliver the decisive blow. He heaved her up over the planks into the hay yard. Then, unable to walk, he crawled to the house.
No bones were broken but Dad was on crutches for several days.
It still seems bizarre, that with all the animals we had, including various bulls over the years, it was a bunch of birds that were the worst.
Tales From Home: Dangerous Livestock
When I was growing up, cows and chickens were a constant at our home. At one time or another, we also had livestock of nearly every standard variety available. Thank God, this didn’t include any huge birds, bison, and I don’t know what else. The “exotics”.
I got my bruises, some my fault, some due to slow reflexes. More often than not, they came from milking the cow when I was lost in my head and wasn’t ready when she kicked. Some were from trying to ride the calves. Others just from general work around the animals.
From day one, it was obvious I had to watch out for the shorthorn bull. Still, Dad warned me to keep an eye out for him any time I was in the pasture and barnyard. At one point, we put a ring in the bull’s nose, (I’m reminded of him often when I see young people who do that to themselves). We hung a three-foot piece of chain from the ring. By the way, that length could be off a bit, you know, fifty years or so have passed. It took experimentation to get the chain just right. The bull figured out how to flip a slightly longer chain over his neck. And chain was an expenditure, so Dad didn’t want to use any more than was strictly necessary. Anyway, the final touch to the project was a single strand of electric wire around the pasture.
I’m afraid in the modern world, I might have to get counseling for admitting to the glee I felt when we sat back and watched the bull touch the hot-wire with the chain. Counseling or not, after that day, I could do the chores without being prepared for the thirty-yard dash at any instant. However, I checked the fence for shorts every couple of days to be certain. Dad and technology had made it safe.
Another animal I had to watch out for was a buck sheep. He never liked me and I never liked him. Being primarily into cows (they were Dad’s bank account most of the time), we’d built the hay manger for them. That *#@% buck would come through the slats in the manger when I was feeding. One day, he pinned me against the back of the hay yard, his unyielding head against my thigh, trying to drive me through the planks. I was small, but tough, but I couldn’t get away from him. It took Dad with the pitchfork to free me. The buck limped away with blood streaming from four puncture wounds. Thank God Dad got out of the sheep business after that year.
It seems hard to believe but we had other evil creatures that inflicted more pain and had me warier than the bull or the buck: geese. They seemed to delight in attacking me when I did the chores. I can’t imagine how many eggs broke in the bucket when I was hot-footing it to escape. I started carrying an ax handle when I did the chores. When the hissing fiends came at me, I’d do my best Harmon Killebrew imitation. (Harmon grew up in a small town an hour from home, and throughout my youth held the number five spot in home runs in MLB). I’d swing for all I was worth, right at the goose’s head. I don’t know why, but I never killed one no matter how hard I made contact. They got smart and would duck and weave so I had to adjust my swing. Often, the confrontation ended in a stalemate, each side grudgingly giving ground. Damn birds.
One morning, they proved just how mean and dangerous they were.
Dad always milked the cow in the morning, and I usually milked in the evening. One morning, Mom woke me and said I needed to milk. I know she said more, but I can’t remember what it was. I dressed and went to the kitchen. Dad was at the table in obvious pain. As I got my coat, the milk bucket, and wash water, he warned me, “Watch out for that damn goose.”
Dad had gone out as usual and the goose was in the entryway to the barn. She had a nest somewhere there and was intent on guarding it. Neck extended, wings outstretched, she hissed at him, warning him to back off.
So, he tried to kick her. Big mistake.
She flapped her wing down at the offending foot, catching it solidly on the top, where all the small bones are. Dad saw stars and certainly uttered words I can’t put in this story. He grabbed the planks lining the entryway to keep from going down. Dad, usually able to make the right decision, made a wrong one then, his second big mistake of the morning.
Barely able to stand, he tried to kick the goose with his other foot. It was as ineffective as the first attempt and had the same end result. The goose whacked him on the top of his second foot. Somehow, while he clung to the planks, he was able to grab the goose by the bill – she must’ve realized he was hurt and moved in to deliver the decisive blow. He heaved her up over the planks into the hay yard. Then, unable to walk, he crawled to the house.
No bones were broken but Dad was on crutches for several days.
It still seems bizarre, that with all the animals we had, including various bulls over the years, it was a bunch of birds that were the worst.
