Weaning Romeo

Our steer calf, Romeo, is now almost seven months old. He was born on Valentine's Day (hence his name) and we steered him when he was about ten days old.

He's a sweet-natured little boy and lets us pet and scratch him without a problem. As you'll see, this turned out to be a good thing.

When we butchered his mama, Filet, we timed it so Romeo would be old enough to wean without a problem. After Filet disappeared from his life, we monitored Romeo carefully to make sure he wouldn't be unduly distressed. As it turned out, he seemed to barely even miss her, go figure.

Part of this is because he rapidly discovered Maggie is a "universal donor" (i.e., very generous with her milk). Romeo started aggressively draining Maggie dry, even depriving her calf Stormy of milk (and Stormy is too young to wean). When I tried milking, I got practically nothing. We had to do something.

One of our fall projects is to build an awning on the back side of the barn to offer the cows more shelter during the winter. Under this awning, we could conceivably build a pen into which we could lock Romeo at night, thus allowing Maggie to "recharge" her milk supply overnight so I could milk in the morning.

There were two things wrong with this plan. One, it would take weeks to complete the project, which meant I wouldn't be able to milk during this interim. And two, if I resumed milking Maggie after locking away Romeo at night, it would mean she was providing milk for three "calves" (Stormy, Romeo, and me). That is too much to ask of a young first-time cow. (Cows give more milk with each succeeding calf.)

So we were stymied on how to keep Romeo away from Maggie without going to the extreme length of keeping him in a separate pasture. Meanwhile, I wasn't able to milk Maggie.

Then something interesting happened. We had arranged for an AI (artificial insemination) expert named Andrea to come out and breed Maggie for us. (Last year, we bred her to a neighbor's young bull, but they no longer have him.) Breeding Maggie by AI meant we could select the sire. This is a whole blog post unto itself, which I'll put up in the future.

But in passing, we mentioned to Andrea our frustrations with Romeo's persistent nursing. Andrea asked us why we didn't use a weaning ring.

A weaning ring? What's that?

What followed was a completely new chapter in our bovine education. We've owned cows since 1998 and, literally, we've never even caught wind of a weaning ring.

Essentially it's a gizmo that is inserted into a calf's nostrils and tightened on the septum. The weaner prevents the calf from being able to reach the cow's teats, but it in no way hinders it from eating. Additionally, the weaner is armed with really sharp spikes. The moment the cows gets poked with these spikes, she kicks the calf away.

Enthused, we immediately ordered one. (Actually, we ordered half a dozen for ten bucks. Don found a deal.)

Ours came in fluorescent orange, presumably the better to see it if it falls off in a pasture somewhere. There is a wing nut that tightens the unit into the septum.

Following the advice on a YouTube video on how to insert the ring, Don filed down any sharp bits on the two sides that would be pressed against the calf's septum so as not to cause irritation. Additionally, he filed down a bit of the points on the spikes, because let me tell you those things are sharp! We didn't want Maggie's udder damaged or pierced should Romeo attack it too vigorously.

During the time it took for the weaning rings to arrive, we strategized how best to confine Romeo to get it inserted into his nose. This is where his sweet nature asserted itself. What we ended up doing was looping a rope around his neck (with a check on it so it wouldn't tighten and strangle him), threaded the other end of the rope through a stout eye-bolt on a barn upright post, and gently drew Romeo in until he was positioned horizontal to the barn wall. When he was in the right position, Don secured the rope and I pressed him flat against the wall. (Cows, when pressed flat against a wall, don't struggle too much.)

Don carefully inserted the nose ring into Romeo's nostrils and gently tightened the wing nut until it wouldn't fall out. (The dear boy held perfectly still for this.) Then we released him and made a big fuss over him, brushing and petting him. While clearly he didn't appreciate having something shoved inside his nose, it didn't seem to bother him too much.

I planned not to milk the next morning, wanting to give Maggie a day or two to recover, and it's a good thing since the nose ring fell off overnight. That evening, we repeated the process of roping and confining Romeo, and Don tightened the ring tighter over the septum (again, Romeo held perfectly still). This time it held.

The poor kid looks like he has fluorescent-orange snot hanging from his nose. A couple days ago, a neighbor told us she burst out laughing the first time she saw it.

We monitored Romeo closely for the first couple of days, since we wanted to make sure the ring didn't interfere with eating or drinking. It didn't hinder him at all. Here he's drinking from the water tank:

He's having no trouble grazing or eating dry hay.

And by golly, this gizmo works. Romeo hasn't been able to nurse even once since he started wearing it. Maggie kicks him off each time he tries, even when he tries to be gentle and sneaky. He simply can't get the teat into his mouth, and the spikes poke Maggie's udder.

So I've been getting milk again, and Stormy has been nursing avidly, possibly making up for lost time.

Interestingly, since installing the nose ring on Romeo, the first few minutes after I release Maggie from the milking stall have been chaotic. Stormy goes diving for her mother to get breakfast. Romeo also dives for Maggie to nurse, but because his nose ring pokes her whenever he tries, she kicks him off. The three animals (Maggie and both calves) are caught up in this spinning maelstrom, with Maggie circling around to evade Romeo, Romeo spinning to try to connect with Maggie, and Stormy desperately trying to hang onto a teat. I've learned to keep away from this scene until Romeo gives up and everyone settles down (which takes just a minute or two) lest I get kicked or slammed.

This morning, after I released Maggie from the milking stall and then released Stormy from the calf pen, it's the first time I've observed Romeo not even try to go for Maggie's udder.

Opinions vary as to how long a weaning ring should stay on the calf, from a minimum of three weeks to longer. Personally I'm inclined to keep it on for a firm six weeks, but we'll see if it's necessary.

A weaning ring. Will wonders never cease.

Stormy's growth

Some readers have asked how our little calf Stormy is doing. She's growing! The photograph below shows her drinking her breakfast moments after I finished milking Maggie and released Stormy from the calf pen.

Honestly, I've never a calf this leggy. She's nearly as tall as Romeo, who is three months older. Romeo is, of course, much beefier, since he's not only older, but a half-Angus, half-Dexter steer.

Stormy and Romeo are good friends.

It seems Stormy might be polled, too, which is interesting. We've never raised a polled calf before. Saves us the trouble of dehorning her!

She's also very sweet and affectionate. Originally we were thinking we would sell her (a woman from our church is interested), but now we're thinking we'll keep her as a possible second milker when she's older. With her half-Angus heritage, her calves will be beefier and will work as meat animals (especially since the only bulls around here are pure Angus, so we can keep the meat lineage going). Meanwhile we'll phase out our pure Angus animals, since we prefer the Jersey strain. Filet has a date with the butcher in August, and next year it will be Mignon's turn, followed by Romeo the year after that. Meanwhile we might keep our eyes peeled for a second purebred Jersey sometime next year.

So that's the update on Stormy.

Aww, calves

We have some new neighbors who bought an old (and sadly uninhabitable) farmhouse a short distance away. They're slowly tearing down the farmhouse, salvaging some of the venerable lumber with which it was built, and eventually plan to build a new home on the original structure's footprint. Meanwhile, they're living in a nearby town.

But they have livestock at their farm: two horses, two cows, and a flock of chickens. They come in daily to care for them.

Don and I were walking Mr. Darcy a couple days ago, and we glanced at the cows and saw ... calves!

I talked to the neighbor today, and he says one is a little heifer, and the other a little bull calf. Even more interesting, he doesn't plan to steer the bull calf, but instead plans to raise him as a bull. How convenient is that???

Don and I hope we'll have all the infrastructure in place to get a couple of Jerseys by early fall (maybe sooner). Although we hope to purchase pregnant cows, or cow/calf pairs, we don't know what will on the market at the time we're looking. And even if we're lucky enough to get pregnant cows, we'll certainly need breeding services at some point in the future. Having a young bull so close by will certainly be handy.

Sigh. I miss calves. It will be good to have some of our own again.

A very generous cow

Here's our cow Victoria. Notice she's nursing not one, not two, but three calves.

That's one generous cow, that's all I can say.

Music soothes the savage beast

As many of you remember, we lost our beloved Jersey Polly on April 22. She left behind her then-seven-week-old calf Anna (whom we have taken to referring to as Little Orphaned Anna). Anna refused to take a bottle, so in desperation we pressed Amy into nurse duty.

Well let me tell you, Amy hates acting as a nurse cow. She will grudgingly let Anna nurse, but only when her own calf Trooper is nursing. No Trooper, no Anna.

This is a photo of a cow who hates her job. She is literally glaring at me because I have her lead rope looped around a post to make her stand still long enough for Anna to fill her belly.

Over the past few weeks, we've developed a routine. We keep Amy's calf Trooper in the corral with Anna. We put Amy into the corral in the evening, let her nurse the calves, then at dark we put the calves in a pen for the night. Around 6 am in the morning I release the calves, let Amy nurse them, then lead Amy out of the corral and release her into the pasture with the rest of herd to graze. At noon I bring Amy up, have her nurse the calves, and turn return her to the pasture. Around 6 pm, I bring Amy up for the night, have her nurse the calves, and leave her in the corral over night. Rinse and repeat, day after day.

As I said, Amy hates it. She hates being brought into the corral when she's enjoying the fresh grass and the company of the other cows. She hates being forced to nurse a calf which isn't hers. We've learned to stand with her holding the lead rope while she's nursing the calves lest she chase Anna off prematurely.

Over the last week or two, Amy has developed a nasty attitude when it comes time to bring her up from the pasture. She'll pull little tricks like just flat-out lying down and not getting up, no matter how much I tug on the lead rope or shout at her. In fact, escorting her up from the pasture has become a two-person job: I do the leading, and Don follows with a stick to whack her rump if she balks. She knows Don won't brook any temper tantrums, so she usually follows docilely enough when he's there. But if I'm solo, forget it.

Last night I tried to bring Amy up solo. No such luck. She balked, she laid down, she dragged her feet, she twisted and writhed on the lead rope. I was getting more and more frustrated and wished I could beat her to a pulp -- believe me, not something you want to do with a milk cow (or any cow). When I go out solo I bring the cell phone with me in case I need to call Don, who comes along armed with a stick. As soon as he gets close enough, Amy starts moving and gives no further trouble as I march her up to the corral.

Two days ago I was busy in the evening, so we fetched Amy up from the pasture, but this time Don stood with her on the lead rope while the calves nursed. And -- he sang to her.

"She had her eyes half-closed," he commented as he told me about it.

So yesterday evening, when I was ready to murder a cow, I did the same thing while I was holding her lead rope while she nursed the calves. I sang Amy a lullaby over and over.

And it worked! She started chewing her cud, she didn't fight off Anna, and she generally calmed down.

And so did I. I no longer felt ready to murder Amy and I emerged from the corral feeling better. Music does indeed sooth savage beasts. Both of us.

We'll keep up this routine for another month at least. At that point Anna will be four months old, the youngest recommended age for weaning a calf, and we can release her to the rest of the herd. She'll doubtless be able to sneak milk from the other cows, who are usually pretty good-natured about double-dipping.

And in the meantime ... we'll sing.

Double-dipping

Our beloved Jersey cow Matilda, who passed away February 10, absolutely loved calves. She would nurse any and every calf who wanted milk. As a result, we called her our Universal Donor.

Yesterday I caught Amy, Matilda's adult daughter, engaging in the same practice. Double-dipping, anyone?

One calf is hers, and the other is little Ferdinand.

As far as I'm concerned, having a Universal Donor is an excellent thing on a farm ... plus it's a testimony to Matilda's gentle, generous nature -- something she clearly passed on to her daughter.

The Brat Pack is complete

We only had one cow -- technically a heifer -- left to give birth to her calf. This was Pixie, Polly's adult calf.

She's been fooling me, this little lady. I've tucked her into the pen (which I'm coming to think of as the Birthing Chamber) a couple times, sure she was close to calving, but morning would come and no calf.

But yesterday her udder was very turgid, and she had a string of mucous hanging from her backside. No escaping it this time.

We'd been letting the animals down into the woods during the day, but they've still been hanging in the driveway in the evening. Yesterday evening came and Pixie was nowhere to be seen, so I walked down into the woods and found her in a thicket of leafless bushes. It's very normal for cows to go off by themselves to give birth, but Pixie is a first-time mother and there are coyotes around. I wanted her on firm ground with the rest of the cows nearby. She docilely let me herd her back into the driveway.

The weather has been very warm (it hit 60F today!) and the nights cool but not bitter, so it didn't bother me wherever Pixie choose to have her calf, as long as it was in the driveway area with the rest of the herd around. She settled right down for the night. I checked her just before I went to bed, and there were no signs of labor yet.

But this morning, I was not surprised to walk outside and see five, not four, calves. Pixie is now a mama.

Here's the new baby, a little girl we named Peggy (so the descendants go: Polly ==> Pixie ==> Peggy), wobbling right over another calf.

Here's Pixie, looking a little shell-shocked at her new role in life. Sometimes it takes new mamas a little while to get the hang of things.

But she was attentive enough. I think it helps to have other, more experienced cows around.

Then I fed all the animals breakfast under the awning, and Pixie was torn between wanting food and wanting to stay with her baby.

Baby?

Or breakfast?

Breakfast won. Hey, a gal has to keep her strength up.

So here we have the makings of a fine Brat Pack: Five little calves, born within a few weeks of each other. Can't you just see the mischief they'll be getting into?

In the meantime, Pixie showed signs of being a good mama.

For a little while, that is. Through a series of unfortunate events (namely, spring), one cow (Sparky) jumped a fence into another pasture, and eventually everyone ended up there for the day -- five cows, four calves.

Naughty Pixie had shucked off her responsibilities and left her baby in the driveway while she took advantage of the pasture (those calves aren't hers, by the way). Like a newborn fawn, it's often the habit of newborn calves to just hunker down and stay still when their mothers are away, so Peggy stayed in the driveway.

As evening drew near, Peggy needed her mama, so I scooped her up and put her in the barn pen, then put fresh food and water in the barn pen as well. Then we did our universal cattle call ("Bossy bossy bossy bossy bossy!!!") and got the herd near the gate. It was at this point Pixie remembered she had a calf, so we got her into the barn with her baby.

I was pleased to see Peggy nursing strongly. Once a calf nurses, its chances of survival are superb.

I'm afraid Pixie is in for a boring spell since we're going to keep her confined with Peggy. We have a day of rain moving in, and I want the newborn protected.

So that's the completion of our Brat Pack. In a few weeks these guys will be wreaking havoc. Such is spring.

Where's Sparky?

This morning I went about doing the usual barn chores: release the chickens, open the corral gate, check the water tank, and finally pitch hay into the feed bins for the cows.

Two cows (Matilda and her adult calf Amy) stay in the barn, so that leaves four cows (Polly, Pixie, Victoria, and Sparky) under the awning. But this morning, only three cows showed up for breakfast. Where was Sparky?

Somehow I knew. I grabbed my camera and headed down to the woods. Sure enough, there was Sparky, standing protectively over the first calf of the season. The baby was already dry and on its feet, meaning it was born overnight.

We know all six of our cows are due in about the next month or so, so we've been watching udders. Usually a swollen udder is a telltale sign that birth is imminent. But I ask you, does this udder look swollen to you? Yeah, didn't think so. Can't even see it among all the fur.

At any rate, considering it's January, this little girl -- yes, it's a heifer -- couldn't have been born at a better time. Yesterday was cold, rainy, and nasty. The rain moved out overnight, the temperature hovered just at freezing but not below, and today we actually had weak sunshine and it rose to 40F.

While Don had his morning coffee, I cleaned Matilda/Amy's pen and made it ready with fresh food and water. Then we went out to fetch the calf up out of the woods. Naturally Sparky had moved from the original spot I saw her, but after beating the property for fifteen minutes we finally found her conveniently closer to the barn. I scooped up the baby while Don herded Sparky and opened gates. Within a remarkably short time, Sparky and baby were safely in the barn.

Ah, nothing like a little meconium to start the day.

It's a beautiful, healthy calf, and Sparky is a good mother.

We spent the day addressing the logistics of mid-winter calves. I'm grateful our winter is mild (unlike last winter) and we have no snow on the ground at the moment. But we can't have calves in the feedlot, which drains poorly and gets knee-deep in mud during wet weather. Our plan is to fence off the awning and open the gate to the driveway area, which is rocked and firm. This would give the animals access to the barn awning for food and shelter, while giving them room to roam around the driveway to stretch their legs and let the calves gambol.

For the moment, Sparky will need to stay in the barn until we have the driveway cow-proof. Don put the tractor to use and cleaned out under the awning...

...while I cleaned out another pen in the barn and made it ready for Sparky and baby to spend the night.

The pen is small, but now it has fresh bedding, water, and hay. We'll be playing musical cows for a few days, but as long as everyone has shelter, that's fine.

We're expecting three to six inches of snow over the next few days, so I'm grateful Sparky had her baby when she did. In fact, the first snow squall moved in just as we settled the animals for the night.

(What's not really visible in this photo is the wind blowing sheets of snow sideways.)

Looks like we'll be doubling our herd in the next month or so. Okay ladies, who's next?

Meanwhile, I thought about naming the new baby Hickory. She is smoky-black at the moment, but I suspect she'll turn dark brown as she gets older.

The first of six calves. In the middle of winter. Oy vey.