Watering the Cattle

With such frigid temperatures during February, my ranching friends can relate to this tale. 

My dad rented a winter wheat pasture where he grazed his calves. The location included a large, shallow pond at one end where the cattle drank. Cattle don't lick ice. I'm not saying they won't lick some moisture up, but they cannot obtain their daily needs from ice. In the summer the average beef, depending on its' size, the ambient temperature and a variety of other variables, requires around 27 gallons per day. They don't drink that much in the winter, but they must have water. Therefore, when the temperature dropped and a thick layer of ice formed, dad put on his galoshes, tromped a half mile out to the pond with his ax and chopped ice a couple of times a day.  

A big storm blew in, and Dad was unable to tend to the herd. By the time he made it to the pasture carrying his ax, the cattle were eager for a drink. He walked out on the ice, and they came running. The entire herd ran to him. I don't remember how many head he had in that pasture, but at least 50. 

Forty or fifty 600 pound calves joined dad on the frozen pond. Cracking and popping sounds filled the air, but as he watched in horror, the entire slab of ice sank into the frigid water below.  He had no idea of the depth of the pond. He tried walking on water as bone-chilling liquid rapidly topped his galoshes and filled his boots. 

Frantic questions raced through his mind. Could he get out of the pond swimming in frigid water with all the calves? How long would it be before someone wondered where he was? What would his family do without him? Cattle surrounded him, many with their heads down slurping water. Relief filled his heart as the plate of ice settled, leaving him standing in knee deep water. 

Now to create a path through the contentedly drinking herd. He swatted cattle out of the way with his hat and gingerly waded to higher ground. From there, he squished to the road and got in his pickup, wondering if he'd ever be able to feel his toes again. 

He never had to break the ice for that particular group of cattle again. They learned to break ice under their combined weight.

Everyman's Hero

The National Western Livestock Show/Rodeo is held in Denver every January. My folks didn't go every year, and when they did, they didn't stay the entire two weeks. Dad liked to attend several of the events and visit relatives in the area. My mother went along, but cattle weren't her thing. On the other hand, who doesn't like a good rodeo?

Located just east of the junction of I-70 and I-25, the best plan is to stay in an outlying hotel/motel and use the complimentary shuttle service to get back and forth. This isn't a travelogue. I am telling you this for a reason.

Late one bitter evening they stood in front of the main gate with other bull riding aficionados waiting for a ride back to the hotel. In a hurry to get out of the weather, people shoved their way on board the next shuttle. It just so happened the driver had allowed one too many passengers on the bus. My mother had no place to sit. Undaunted, she squeezed her 90-pound frame between the last seat and the emergency exit door.

Now, I'm sure this broke every rule the driver would have studied to get his commercial driver's license. I still have terrible visions of what would have happened if the door had popped open at 70 mph on a busy freeway.

By now I bet you're wondering about my dad's whereabouts since there wasn't any room for my mom, aren't you? Perhaps you are assuming he didn't elbow his way onto the shuttle? Maybe he was crushed underfoot in the stampede? Mom should probably get off the bus and shiver until the next one arrives.

Rule Twenty-One: Don't try to prove to total stranger's that you are a gentleman.

My father made a general announcement to the whole bus. Yeah, he got on.

"I'd give my seat to that lady, but she's my wife."

A man across the aisle who was sitting with a woman, presumably his wife or significant other, leaned over and shook Dad's hand.

"Buddy, you're my kind of guy!"

Watusi Cattle

My father raised Watusi for many years. These domesticated African cattle should not be confused with Longhorns. The Ankole-Watusi have been registered as a breed in the U.S. since 1983.  Dad was interested in them for three reasons. The first was his life-long abiding fascination with anything different or unusual. The second was the fact the meat is lean, and much like venison with no marbling. Third, the cows have easy births dropping forty pound calves. Rarely does an owner lose a cow or calf or require a visit from the vet.

There are two ways to describe the Ankole-Watusi.  Foundation Pure which means 100% pure bloodlines.  Or, Native Pure, which means a crossbred animal has been bred back to pure until it is 15/16ths Watusi DNA.

Dad also liked their disposition.  Although they have the most massive horns of any cattle breed, they aren't considered aggressive.  The lyre-shaped horns are the animal's air-conditioner with excess body heat dispersed through the blood vessels in the horns.

      I admit to being a little anxious when Grandpa led the kids among the herd to this baby.

Watusi need their space.  If too closely confined, they will swing their horns at one another demanding more room.  They also use their horns to brush flies away.  Most cattle would use their tail. They can accidentally knock a person down when they suddenly swing their head.

After they are butchered, the skull and horns make great decor. Dad donated a set of horns to many a local fund-raiser.

 
If you would like to see more images or learn more, here are a couple of links.


https://livestockconservancy.org/index.php/heritage/internal/ankole-watusi
http://www.awir.org/Ankole Watusi International Registration+