The cowboys are ready. Lance climbs into the chute and prods a reluctant calf toward the v-shaped pipe device at the end. Suddenly, the calf grunts as Gary and Darrel close the walls around it, pinning it in place. A lever is pulled, and the calf is flipped on its side. It cries out repeatedly, but his bleatings are lost in the steady chorus of “moooooooo” emanating from the corral behind him. As its ear is tagged, a pocketknife makes short work of the calf’s horn stubs, and one of the glowing tools is pulled from the fire to cauterize the wound. It sends up a thick cloud of pungent smoke, smelling almost like burning hair, and as it rises toward Darrel’s face he turns away. As the tool returns to the fire, Wayne picks up his knife and a can of antiseptic, and carefully begins castrating.
As quickly as it began, the operation is over. The cage swings upright, the door opens, and a bleeding calf exits, grunting indignantly. The next calf enters, and the team moves in perfect synchronicity, timing their actions to flow perfectly together without so much as a word of communication between them. It’s an impressive sight. As the day draws on, dozens more calves are ushered through, prepared in the first few months of their lives for an existence as a commodity.
The calves' horns are removed for safety in feeding troughs, Jim says, where they might gouge each other’s eyes out later in life if their horns were left in place. The males are castrated to control breeding, which ensures a higher quality herd overall. Two Black Angus bulls are kept in separate pastures during the year, and introduced to the herd of Herefords to create a specially blended offspring that will sell well.

After the calves have all been treated, the rest of the herd receives a spraying of an insecticide to keep them disease-free. One heifer’s horn has grown in a malformed curve that jabs the point back into her head, leaving a festering sore over an inch wide. Robert guides her down the chute, removes the offending horn with a hacksaw, and sends her on her way. All day, I had seen cows bleeding all over the place and thought little of it, but the horn removal made me feel a little uneasy. I
suppose it was the smell – I’m still not sure if it came from the heat of the hacksaw blade or the festering sore itself, but as the horn came off it was accompanied by a sweet, musky smell and a larger amount of blood than I was prepared for. Robert didn’t even seem to notice.

Perhaps being a cowboy isn’t in my future.

Finally, the gate is opened, and the herd returns to the rocks and fields from whence it came. Still displaying their characteristic lack of intelligence, they act not as a group of informed creatures but as a lumbering mass: a collection whose only asset is its sheer number. When they return to the fields, there will be no hunting, no elaborate courtship rituals, no tests of strength – there will be only eating, sleeping, and things to do in between. One day the truck will return, honking its horn and bringing the alfalfa pellets that every cow loves, and the herd will be led off to market. But the balance of nature will not be disturbed, and the ecosystem will remain in balance. For the cow’s role in nature is a domestic one now, existing only because humans find them useful – and as I listen to them call back and forth to each other as they cross the fields, I wonder if they know.

Entire contents © 2003 Alex Jones