The cows among us

Much has been made of the intellectual weakness of the cow.  

That's dumb.

What a noble beast.  My family's forebears, in fact, built a living around the bovine crowd.  My grandfather, Luther Abraham Weaver, was a professor of animal husbandry at the University of Missouri, did a lot of livestock judging, and had a "gentleman's farm" north of Columbia. My uncle, Wendell Arbuckle, specialized in dairy science and in particular turning cow's milk into the magic of ice cream. 

So it was with some anticipation that a close friend of Zach's -- Sarah -- recently had to show a cow as part of her vet-school training at Kansas State University. 

We jumped in the car and headed to Manhattan for two reasons -- to see and support Sarah, and to check out what was now Zach's school of choice, K-State.  He starts there this fall. 

For a visual look at how Sarah did, click here.  All in all, she did her family proud.  Unlike some of her peers, who had to push and prod and cajole their charges into the ring, Sarah's "Baby" -- Sarah's name for her cow -- seemed docile and compliant.  

I suspect it was Sarah doing some kind of cow-whisperer thing.

I like cows.  I don't think Dad did, much.  He used to tell us that he didn't like working the farm ... that he jumped at the chance to move to St. Louis and a big-city engineering job. 

But growing up, some of my best memories were traveling back to Columbia to see the farm, climb around the barn, make forts in the hay bales and -- yes -- moo at Granddad's Black-Angus cattle. 

L.A. Weaver was a rock star among the Midwestern livestock set.   I recently found a letter he penned long-hand to my father when Dad was in the Air Force during World War II.   Dated Oct. 14th, 1945, Granddad wrote:

"Guess you know from your mother's letters that it's been a game of 'touch & go' with me all fall.  Last week was an example.  Was out of town all but two days.  This week, I go to St. Joe Tuesday afternoon to put on a judging demonstration there Wednesday morning, go to K.C. that night for an Angus cattle show and to attend a meeting of the Heart of America American Angus Association Thursday night.  

"Will get home Friday morning and leave Sunday afternoon for Farmington to judge Herefords on Monday, home that night, to Chillicothe Tuesday to judge hogs, and so it goes ...."

Here's a shot I found of Granddad judging sheep ... not sure where.

I like to imagine what that life was like ... driving from town to town, meeting old friends over steak dinners -- when dinner was the mid-day meal -- discussing the latest science and philosophy behind animal husbandry, then judging the beasts ... what I'm sure was an intricate process. Then perhaps a cup of coffee to end the evening.  And off to another town the next day to do it again. 

You wonder when he had time to teach. 

Judging cattle seems subtle to us city folk.  But to judge cattle is to carefully scrutinize a cow's height, the way its head sits atop its shoulders, the length of its carriage, the sturdiness of its legs and the leanness of its body. 

It is a fine art.  And it varies by cow type.  In Sarah's case, her Baby was a young dairy cow whose udder was just developing.  It was important, she was told, to try to get Baby to stand just so ... so that the udder could be clearly viewed by the judge. 

Hmm ...  good luck with that. 

One of the best jobs I ever had was when I was a college student and worked for a landscape company in Champaign, Illinois.  The outfit was called Sod Now.  Clever.  It was kind of a gypsy company.  You never quite knew who were employees and who were not. But I was between semesters and needed the work. 

For about three weeks, I landed a plumb assignment. I was to cultivate grass seed in the barren ground surrounding the University of Illinois' spanking-new Large Animal Clinic, on the south end of campus.  (Here's a map of the place today; if you visit, know the grass is mine.) On all sides of the clinic were acres upon acres of cattle. 

It was heaven for me.  Most folks are put off by the smell of cow manure.  I'm reminded of those wondrous weekend trips to the farm.  

That also was back when I would run five miles a day on the weekends. Because of the cows, I chose to do it out by the South Farms, of which the clinic was a part. The path I chose basically was a long, circular country road.  

I guess in a silly way it was my own Chariots of Fire -- I'd run hard, breathe hard ... though instead of running along beach front dodging waves as the Brits did in that famous film, I'd pound the good Midwestern earth and dodge cow pies. 

During my workdays, I'd drive my old VW Beetle to the site, spread the seed and fertilizer, water it in, and then break for lunch.  I'd find a stretch of ground by the fence separating me from the cows. Invariably, three or four would wander over to check me out while I munched on a sandwich. 

And then we'd moo.  I'd moo a greeting.  They'd moo back.  I'd answer their moo with my moo. And so it went, through lunch.  I got pretty good at mooing. 

I used to think it was just intelligent banter.  

I now think that the cows warmed to me because of my sandwich choices. You see, I was in a rut back then -- either peanut butter and jelly, or Velveeta cheese.  Both were tasty between bread, and economical. 

I'm sure both met with their approval. 

Because roast beef would have killed the conversation.