Because Of The Rye Grass
Cows have always been a possibility. George comes from a long line of cows. His father has cows. His uncles have cows, his grandfather had cows. He’s rolled it around in conversation and considered the length and breath and depth of our land as even being capable of housing and feeding a small herd. George stood admiring the tall, lush, green rye growing in our pastures and seemed a bit disgruntled that the pigs were choosing to dig into it and eat the bugs beneath it instead of munch on the tasty, juicy green all around them. “Cows,” he said, “would eat this grass.” Not twenty four hours later he proposed, "can you go pick up two baby calves at a dairy about an hour away?" I’ve often bucked and participated reluctantly in some of the comings and goings of livestock at our place, but this time, I asked a few questions, loaded up the kids and a dog crate and headed west to Marianna to collect two baby cows. I couldn’t fathom that they would fit in a dog crate, b