I am a farmerista because I have calves.
Yes, I do. Calves of my very own. Three. Registered in my name. I feed them. I pet them. I talk high-pitched baby talk to them and tell them “no worries!” while hopping on one foot after being squished by hard hooves.
Actually, that last part isn’t true. I don’t say “no worries”, because it hurts bad, just like their incessant head butting in my side. I know they can’t help it, but dang it, it’s rude. And I tell them that.
Now that I am the owner of a small herd, I need to get serious. Being the minority in this manly field of livestock operating, I must prove myself or something like that.
I am responsible for three fuzzy black creature’s well-being.
I must make sure they are fed twice a day and safe from harm, that they aren’t sick, and if they are, they are treated for it. I honestly cannot think of anyone else who has this level of responsibility! I just can’t.
Here are the newest members on the farm:
The first calf is a female and the youngest. She also head butts the most. If you’ve ever watched a calf drink from their momma, they like to butt at the udders when it’s empty. I watched her perform this natural process to the tail gate of Country Man’s pickup while I was getting her bottle ready, and then upon seeing me, she chased me around, eyes locked and determined to get milk no matter the consequences. Occupational hazard.
The second one is a male but older and more cautious toward people. He’ll grow familiar, one way or the other.
The last one above is sickly and has fluid in her lungs, so she’s smaller than the other two and takes in less milk. This girl was a bargain price, and also the least social. But she runs like crazy, so I think she’ll pull through.
Well there you have it. You’ll probably be seeing them around some more, since I’ll be spending time with the trio often.
Also, the garden is coming in well. We’ll be eating spinach and lettuce for a while…
… a long, long while (I hope).