Bog Myrtle & Peat

We came to tag the new calf and ran against an obstacle. The applicator was jammed and the cow’s patience wore thin. She’d borne my intrusion with quiet resignation, but speed is crucial at a time like this. Seconds drove by, and I was fumbling at an adjustable pin in a broken plastic tool.

The cow began to roll her eyes and huffed until long sprays of snotters came off her like sparks. The moment was lost and I’d begun to pull back when she came at me in a loud and rolling flow with her head curled under her shoulders like a boxing glove. I looked to the slope of her back and saw it dense with the flex of bones and flesh. She foamed into my hip with a roar, and the rush almost consumed me. I was over the dyke and away, but how close I’d come to black destruction.

People are killed in moments like these. It was easy to picture the crack and rupture of my pelvis; the queasy pop of ribs and cartilage. Christ it was scary, but the memory of that half second grew over the day that followed and soon I was fluttery and weak with the weight of it.

My grandfather knew a man that was mashed by a new mother, and he’d lain for half a day in the mess of his own blood. The stockman had worked for thirty years with hill cattle, but he’d miscalled that moment and he never worked again. People said he was lucky and should’ve known better, but his loss was our gain. That story has kept me careful, but now I’ve had a close run of my own to remind me that I’m working down a tough and risky line.