Today was calf processing day up at the farm. The herd at Innisfree has always been fairly… spirited, but this year they took us a little by surprise. The picture above is Katie and I rounding them up into the barn to be sorted (mamas from calves, which they weren’t terribly pleased about). Also, I swear their bull is Black Angus crossed with Bison. He’s a big boy, and not immune to being a little cantankerous. Traits, it seems, he’s been passing on with increasing potency to his successive generations of progeny.

The herding and sorting went okay, maybe a little better than average. But there was one crazy heifer (I think) who decided she wanted none of the pen we were trying to herd her towards, and gave us her best Disney on Ice impression (complete with triple lutzes), only on a concrete floor slicked with cattle droppings. That should’ve been our first clue, but we forged on.

The first few taggings and one banding went okay, but when we tried to corral one of the larger heifers into the calf table, things got sporty in a big, fast hurry. There are three levers on the calf table that secure the animal and hold them still so you can tip them on their side and do whatever you need to do. I was working two of them, the front gate (which holds their head and neck), and the “squeezer,” while our friend Jamie worked the third. Unfortunately, getting this heifer into the table at all took more than a little doing, and once she was in, she was too strong/crazy/fast for me to get her secured before she nearly tipped the whole contraption over on me.

I mean, I’ve been working out and all, but this was one strong heifer. Maybe I need to start eating grass.

And it was only downhill from there. After more than a few more tries with that (and other) calves, we realized that we were accomplishing little else but putting ourselves in mortal danger, and riling up the little calf herd worse with each successive try. Even some of the smaller calves are 300 pounds or more, and all muscle, and they care not at all for your desire to get them tagged so they can be released back into the pasture. Also they have very large heads, which they aren’t shy about ramming into things, even things that you’re holding. Or you. During one such debacle, Katie found herself in a pose as if holding back the gates of Helm’s Deep, as an angry calf charged and kicked and looked for a way through the blocking gate she was holding.

She held. She’s been working out, too.

During an attempt to separate out a couple of the smallest calves, the largest bull calf decided it was time to take charge of the situation. So he did. Charge. Into my brother. This was one of a few times I was fairly well persuaded he, or I, or both, were going to be spending the rest of the day in the hospital.

We broke for lunch, shaking our heads and laughing while we warmed up and ate pizza. Several of us were battered and bruised (none more so than my brother, for certain), and we were only creating more panic, and further emboldening the bull calf with each attempt. So the unanimous decision was taken to abandon the processing of the remaining calves and sell them off as-is.

We managed one more feat with some creative (and brave) lasso work, dragging the smallest calf out of the pen so she could go back out to the pasture to nurse, but that was all. Such is life on the farm. We like to think we have total mastery of the animals around us, but sometimes you are forced to step back (several steps, as necessary), give them their due respect, and know when everyone’s limit has been reached. On a good day, like today, that happens before we have to call the ambulance.

I’ll say this. I’ve never been happier in my life to be a meat eater. Stupid angry cows…