Son of Big Sue
From wheeler@super.org Wed Feb 24 17:42:54 1993
Date: Thu, 1 Oct 92 10:29:51 EDT
From: wheeler@super.org (Ferrell S. Wheeler)
To: tms@cs.umd.edu
Subject: Son of Big Sue
[From the May/June, 1992 issue of _Vegetarian Journal_, published
by the Vegetarian Resource Group, P.O. Box 1463, Baltimore, MD 21203,
(410) 366-VEGE.]
THE SON OF BIG SUE
by Israel Mossman
Big Sue was due to "come fresh" any day now. When she did not return
with the herd from night pasture, it could only mean that she had given
birth and probably was in the woods, hiding from dairy farmers and other
predators who might harm her newly arrived offspring. I jumped on my
temperamental steed, an old cantankerous International Farmall "C" trac
tor. From that elevated, mobile observation platform, I could quickly
check the fences adjoining the pasture to see where she had broken
through. Finding the break, I jumped off the tractor and entered the
woods, hoping not to encounter any unfriendly, woodsy creatures such as
snakes, ticks, or poison oak.
There she was, in the woods, nervously guarding her newborn bull
calf. There is no way to transport a calf on a tractor, so I knelt on
one knee, placing my right arm under his hindquarters and my left arm
under his chest, and slowly lifted the noisy, squirming, 90-pound bundle
of joy. Then I carried him the half mile back to the barn area, with
the new mommy following close behind.
Big Sue was upset beyond belief. She bellowed loudly enough to be
heard in the next county. She was afraid that I would take her baby
from her, and her fears were well-founded. But I knew that she would
not attack me, at least not now. She was too intent on following her
son. But she cried in her own bovine way with all the anguish that a
human mother would have if her baby were taken from her.
It was necessary to separate cow and calf at once, before permanent
bonding could take place. Big Sue, heartbroken and howling, was ushered
into the milking barn. Her son was carried into the calf stable.
There, he would learn to drink from a galvanized bucket by having liquid
splashed into his face by a hand that he could suck. He no longer had a
mother to nuzzle against.
Big Sue went to her usual stall to be relieved of her colostrum,
the predecessor of her milk that nature intended her newborn calf to
have. But when a pulsing, throbbing, milking machine was applied to her
teats instead of her rambunctious calf suckling her, she kicked at me
but missed--hitting the milking machine instead. She knocked the heavy
contraption 25 feet, and it broke apart at its seams. If she had
connected with me below the rib cage with that much force, it would have
ruptured my aorta and my wife would have become my widow. Dairy farming
is indeed more dangerous than coal mining. Trying to calm both myself
and the rightfully angry cow, I said in my most soothing voice that it
was illegal to repair a stainless steel milker (bacteria might hide in
the mended seams) and, besides that, it was expensive to do so.
Fortunately, my mechanic had mastered the delicate technique of brazing
stainless steel with silver at low heat. Big Sue was still angry,
unimpressed by my comforting monologue. The only remaining alternative
was to restrain her by looping a rope forward of her pelvis and udder,
and drawing it tight. The resulting pressure on her sciatic nerve would
temporarily weaken her rear legs so she would not kick. But I tightened
the rope too much, and she began to fall slowly on me. Not wanting to
be buried by more than one-half ton of cow, I loosened the rope just
enough so she could stand again but not kick. She was now subdued but
not very happy. The milking process than continued without further
incident.
There is no need for a young bull on a dairy farm. Since
Thursday's livestock auction was a few days away, he would be lucky
enough to be nourished by his mother's colostrum for a short time. Then
he would live on "calf starter" mix--heavily laced with antibiotics but
short on nutrients. In a few months he would become veal to satisfy the
appetites of his new owner's family.
Since Big Sue became her sassy old self again in a few days, she
must have forgotten all about her young son. But I never did, and it
has been over 30 years now.
Note: The writer asked the dairy farm owner, his mother-in-law, to
sell the farm. She did.
Animal Rights and Vegetarianism
