a story about weaning

Calves do not like the weaning.

They don’t understand that it is an important aspect of growing up.

The will bawl.

They will head butt.

And sometimes, they will break out of fences and move into the “nice” yard.


Hello. Feed me. Like now.

Into the yard to chase the hand that feeds them. “Just one more bottle,” this brave one bellows.

“No more!” I say, in my best tough love voice.


She still does not understand this is for her own good, that the milk cravings will subside and the oats and grass will be plenty.


I try to tell her, but she will have none of it.


I distract her until Country Man comes home to put her back among friends and food.

husband and calf

Afterwards, he goes inside to kick off his boots for the day, and a  minute later, I follow suit.

Walking into the kitchen, I reach inside the container for the last chocolate chip cookie I’ve been thinking about all day. It’s gone.

No more? Cookies… gone?

I fight the urge to head butt my husband and instead surrender, knowing very well my body will thank me later once it finishes cursing me for the two I ate earlier.

Farm life has taught me well.


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