February 19, 2004

A fellow pumping gas in Mertzon observed last week that motorists no longer yield the right-of-way to skunks. He thought the 70 mile an hour speed limit turned the highways into a free-for-all road kill if not even an animal as odoriferous as a skunk slowed traffic.

Next morning, Goat Whiskers the Younger called to report he was loose herding one of my cows off the pavement, waiting for the sheriff to halt traffic. By the time I arrived, red Hondas and shiny crewcabs roared by, tires singing as if the three men, the three vehicles, the flashing lights and the one black cow in broad daylight were the starting gate for the straight-away track.

We hadn't stocked cattle on the highway since 1992. We lack one half mile of replacing the right-of-way fence on each side of the highway. The only weak points are the 14-foot cattleguards that oil companies so graciously left us to maintain.

We tried to clean the fill from one guard using ranch equipment. Neither the hydraulic lift on our tractor nor the blade on the steel track would budge one end of the heavy pipe frame six inches, much less lift it. After the tractor stalled and a hose broke on the steel track, a neighbor suggested hiring an oilfield workover crew and a winch truck to do the job. I told him if they'd work for the salvage value of the two tractors, I might give the idea a try. Otherwise, 12 feet of wire gap was going to have to block the cattleguard.

Restoring this guard was not only important for keeping my cattle off the highway, it also gave fossil fuel miners complimentary access to their leases. It was further convenient for the general public to whip in off the hot asphalt for a few cans of beer to fight road fatigue, take a stroll over to hunt arrowheads in the flint beds close by, or have a handy spot to dump ashtrays and litter bags.

My cow venture got off to a bad start without cattleguard problems. The first cattle we moved pushed over a wire gate in a corner and escaped onto my brother's pasture. Took two men on horseback three trips to gather the cows. During hunting season, there are only four hours in the middle of the day when a man can ride without being a backstop for a hunting blind, and midday is the most difficult time to see a black cow shaded under a cedar bush, unless you search after dark.

The second bunch were the light end of the heifer calves from on the Divide. Four red bulls were turned in on the eighth of January. The pasture waters on the highway. On the tenth of January, a neighbor called and said, "I saw four old Mexico steers in your cattle on the highway. Wonder how the heifers are going to gain weight with the steers running with them?"

The insult had a short life and shorter attention span. Along with the cow jumping into the highway and the ones escaping onto my brother's pasture, a five year-old cow nursing a big bull calf changed from a sleek, fit mother into a listless brute too weak for her calf to nurse in a week's time. She'd come to feed, but wouldn't eat.

I knew this was a desperate case. When a black cow loses her appetite, it's too late to call for the doctor unless she's also connected with the rendering plant. I've seen Angus cattle slip their hair, lose their teeth, go blind, scour, take hoof rot, swallow beer cans and fan belts, drink oil and salt water, run fever and have chills, and do a combination of all those ills, and still consume four chips of hay and 10 pounds of cake at a feeding.

Four different men thought the sick cow had hardware disease. Enough trash blows off the highway right-of-way to dam an irrigation ditch, much less block the alimentary canal of a cow. However, the diagnosis was unclear. Did they mean hardware or hard-wear? Range doctors blame all mysterious aliments on hardware disease, but shortgrass cattle also suffer hard wear disease from grazing in between small stones and licking the moss around big rocks.

Two prominent hollowhorn and goat specialists in Ozona denied hardware or hard wear as the illness. Admitted they were stumped. Kept the cow two days in the hospital. Agreed her two month-old calf must be weaned. Closed the case in the bookkeeping department.

Tonight at this writing, she's bawling down at the barn for her calf sleeping at the auction barn. Cow ranching on a major highway is a perilous life. Probably part of the trouble was the 13-year intermission for the drouth. My red bulls may look like Mexico steers, but the song will change, chorus and verse, when the judges at the auction pass the ribbons next year at the feeder calf sale.

February 19, 2004

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