I love cows. I’d think that, if you’re reading this bit of prose, the chances are pretty good you may have a deep connection with that simple three-word phrase. I’ll bet at this moment, the cockles of your heart are warmed, while your blood pressure is instantly elevated a notch or two. It’s not always easy to live with this condition, nor is it always pleasant. However, that’s not to say that the opposite is always true, either.
For me, the annual fall gather, perhaps as much as any event, amplifies the odd dichotomy that is my relationship with cows. Not just an event, the fall gather is actually more of a monthlong process. Without fail, I generally spend two weeks fighting with about 100 head of cows who, with the advent of shorter days, brighter-colored leaves and slightly cooler weather, insist on hanging on the bottom fences of our Forest Service allotment with the apparent hope of being turned down onto the hayfields and meadows of the valley below. It’s a grind that wears out horseshoes, horses, dogs and my patience. Never mind that there may still be plenty of good, albeit dry, feed blanketing the steep hillsides and draws of the higher elevations.
The cows’ apparent lust for the easy life, where they need not climb the hills in search of some dry bunchgrass or trail a mile or two for water, is matched by my aggravation and determination to make them stay on the mountain as long as I legally and possibly can. Every bite they take from the fields and low country range of the home place is one bite closer to the necessity of feeding hay. And feeding hay is an inevitability and an expense I wish to delay to the very last bite.
Of course, the fall fence pushers do not have the singular honor of incurring my wrath each autumn. Once the gates are opened and the initial gather of the lower country is completed, the hunt for the other two-thirds of the herd begins. These are the cows who are content to remain on the mountain as long as Mother Nature will allow. Not only are the cows seemingly content, but they apparently find great bovine joy, commensurate with the level of cowboy frustration that mounts with each step required to scour every cove, canyon, grove and hillside in search of the crafty devils. It’s often only the equalizing partnership of the “Great White Cowboy,” in the form of a late-October blizzard that finally convinces the wayward bossies to head for home.
I dabble in social media. Though I’m not very handy with any of the various platforms – I can’t even figure out how to edit a video – I kind of like to fish for “likes” with the occasional video of my version of southern Idaho cowboying. For the most part, I post only snippets of the peaceful, idyllic scenes of my perfect and serene rural Western lifestyle. Judging from my social media posts, it’s easy to imagine why I say I love cows, but I find myself being quite critical of those well-intentioned commenters from all over the world who express amiable jealousy toward my supposed ideal life, complete with the perfect “office window.” I find myself unjustly deriding their naivete. “If they only knew the other side of the coin,” I often think to myself.
The greater portion of my life seems to be an exercise in angst, frustration and poverty. My cows are stupid, my equipment is falling apart and my horses are too old, too green or too rank. Those splendid scenes of the herd strung out for a mile up the mountain canyon while I peacefully trail along behind are only a partial depiction of the adventure that is my life.
But this is where I step back and take a deep breath. Before I allow myself to fall into the abyss of despair that can too easily engulf those of my ilk, I grab hold of the ever-present light of gratitude that’s always within my grasp, if I’m mindful enough to reach for it. What value is my affection for my lifestyle, largely represented by my cows, if I only value the sweet times and the gentle cows? It’s easy to love the cow that will eat out of your hand or to savor calving season on a bright, warm day from inside the cab of the pickup. It’s another thing entirely to love the cows that crash the fence or the heifer who leaves her calf to freeze in a snowbank.
I suppose it’s kind of akin to loving your enemy or maybe even something closer to home. Maybe it’s like loving the lost son or daughter or having genuine compassion for the neighbors who are going through a nasty divorce or holding your tongue when gossip and criticism beg your attention. I believe that embracing the dark days and the rough times and learning to love those who may require you to work for that love allows us to reap a much greater reward than we’d realize by simply taking the well-worn path or waiting for the sunshine to warm us as we rock in the chair by the front window. True gratitude is something that’s earned, but it pays dividends far greater than the price it takes to attain it.
