Sexy Beast

Every day is like Christmas when I open this box.

I included myself {and Mushy!} in this picture as a size reference, to show how huge this equipment is, but it didn’t work – it just makes me look short.
In reality, I’m 5’9″ and this stuff is as big as I am.

Behold, the 4×5.
I’ll share more about this awesome camera in later posts.

True love.

Watching Death

I watched a death today. It was hard to be sad and hard not to be sad – it was a fast death after a long and good life, but that still doesn’t make it easy.

Mike started his cow herd after his daughter died – he bought ten ten-year-old cows that were on their way to slaughter and having them, to tend and feed, made him get out of bed every day. His herd has now grown from ten cows to close to one hundred, and all of them are descendants of the original ten.

Yesterday, two cows remained of the original ten. Today, there is only one. One of the matriarchs started a sudden decline about a week ago, hadn’t gotten up for days, was obviously at the end. Mike had been taking her hay to eat while she was down but today it was clear that the most loving and respectful act would be to make sure she did not suffer on.

I knew it was going to happen today but I didn’t know when; Mike was out hauling hay and tending to other work. The sun lured me out around noon and I walked to the far pasture where the cows were lounging – Daisy, Frisco, and Fiona, a few other calves, some heifers, and the two matriarchs. Baby was resting at the far end, and the ailing cow was on the outskirts at the opposite end. I walked down to Baby and climbed on him, stretching out on his back, soaking up his warmth from below and the sun’s from above.

I was roused by Charlie’s high-pitched yips – his voice carries very far – he was singing Mike’s approach and soon I, too, heard Mike’s diesel in the distance. I was certain he would come directly to the pasture and I knew what would follow.

His truck appeared, slowed, then turned down the lane, coming towards me. I watched from Baby’s back as he drew near and turned off his truck beside the old cow. He stepped out, so entirely focused on her and the task he dreaded that he did not notice me watching him from atop Baby, fifty yards away. He reached in his truck for a rifle. No hesitation, no delay. And before the sound was gone from the air he was back in his truck, backing out to the main road. When he turned onto the main road he looked back to the cow, and I could tell that at that moment, he saw me. He was too far away for me to see his expression but I could see his regret, his remorse for not noticing me earlier, for doing it in front of me. For me having to have watched.

He went off to check some other cows and probably smoke a cigarette and he switched trucks, leaving his diesel for a feed truck with hydraulic arms which he could use to move the cow, and he returned to the pasture and walked up to me. Baby was standing at that point – he lurched himself up at the sound of the feed truck and was expecting hay; I stayed on him and was sitting, straddling him.

“I didn’t know you were here, I’m so sorry,” Mike said as he approached.
“It’s OK,” I said, “don’t be sorry.” I told him I could have walked home when I heard him coming. That I was there on purpose. That I knew he didn’t see me; that I wanted to be there to give him support in the moment, even though he didn’t know I was there.

It’s harder for Mike than it is for me. Most people wouldn’t believe that.

It was the right thing for the cow. She was 24 years old, which is like 104 in human years. She got to have a life that most cows never do.

She was there for Mike, in the beginning, when he needed her. And he was there in the end, when she needed him.