A Time for Change

Last autumn (2023) as I walked the hillside pasture my hands floating over the hip high grasses with the smell of Lupine hanging heavy in the air a tear ran down my cheek with the realization there wouldn’t be many more times I would experience this. My cow herd was following me true to fashion. A couple younger calves were walking in unison with me. A few teenage cows were running ahead not even knowing where I would end up. And my older cows true and faithful friends were ambling behind picking up the rear of the herd. My protectors ready and willing to stay with me should I falter.

Truth be known tears are cresting over my eyelids as I finish this blog some 12 months later.

Something so simple and instinctual such as walking had become laborious, painful, and unsteady. My tenacity, strength, and of course stubbornness that I come by naturally had brought me this far in my fourteen years as the Amateur Cow Whisperer. As my daughters were both grown and raised with family and careers of their own that left me in solitude most days with the cow herd. 

Now I found myself fighting the almost hidden from outward appearance but terribly painful internal debilitating disease PsA otherwise known as Psoriatic Arthritis. This type of arthritis is far from the typical aging or sports induced arthritis. In fact, why it is even labeled as arthritis is a misrepresentation of the disease. PsA is an inflammatory autoimmune disease. Instead of your immune system protecting you against bacteria and viruses it mistakenly attacks your joints, ligaments, tendons, and sometimes skin. Some seventeen years ago I had been misdiagnosed with Fibromyalgia instead of PsA. That is a story for a different time. 

Sadly, instead of pushing myself and my body through the pain I was experiencing because it was in soft tissue and would do no damage; I instead had been unknowingly destroying the tendons and ligaments in each joint. My days with the cow herd had always brought me such peace and joy. Pushing through my pain and tiredness to care for them whether moving hay to feed them or hiking on foot to move them from pasture to pasture. No wonder why my worst joints were shoulder, fingers, knees, and feet. My gait increasingly worsening never to be fixed. 

Nutella, my oldest cow, who was beyond breeding days now, came to walk beside me. She nudged my hand over the tall grasses, and we stopped in unison. I began scratching the sides of her face as she enjoyed. No words were necessary between us. She and I knew each other’s pain. We had walked many dry dusty summer and icy snow laden paths together over the years. From the year she was born just three days after her best cow friend Brownie, they had both been my most loyal cows. It’s no secret that they will always be my all-time favorites. 

She and her best friend, Brownie, had stood with me in the pastures and listened to my sobs when my late husband, John, had died. And just six months ago I had stood with Nutella over Brownie’s final resting place when all efforts to save her were lost. That day mimicked the day of John’s sudden death, both were intense, ugly, brutal, and in the end fruitless. Yet, both would be imprinted on my heart and in my mind forever. Nutella and I were the last from those early days of my amateur cow whisperer experiences. The learning experiences of those infant days with the cow herd would forever be secrets between she and I.  

Pets from lap dogs or cats to my own cows are often creatures that are more in tune and comforting than our own fellow humans. Even with our best intentions, we humans cannot always offer fellow humans what they need in that moment of grief and sorrow. Someone close to me uttered these words shortly after John died, “I’m sure your heart still hurts but it hurts me more to see you this way.” Hearing the words come from their lips instantly insulted me and ended the conversation immediately as I had no words in response.  

Really? At first, I thought the person was trying to make some sort of poor joke. But they really meant it. Worse yet, they heartfully meant it. I wanted to push the “unfriend” button, unfortunately unlike social media in real life there is no such button. Instead, you shake your head and move forward just like grief itself. You don’t get over it, you move forward, and carrying it gets lighter as the world gets bigger around it. 

After much time went by and still perplexed by that statement I thought about it a bit more unbiasedly. What I realized is that perhaps for some people seeing another in pain does cause them so much hurt because they care about that person so much that it prevents them from offering anything of themselves as comfort. That’s okay. We each process and react differently. But, frankly, even if I felt that way I would never say those words to anyone in response to their grief. So, I’m putting it out here in this blog, if you feel that way, please don’t say those words that were uttered to me. There are so many other words one could say. You don’t even have to say anything at all. You can instead just hold their hand, sit with them, pray over them, or give them a gentle hug in silence.

Nutella and I once again began walking out of the pasture, down the hill, and on the path by the creek until it forked three ways. We took the fork in the path that led to the lower barn. Once there I went through the human door and Nutella went around to the feeder side and stood with the rest of the herd.

I didn’t normally have to feed in September, but it had been an abnormally dry year and there were no grasses left even in the creek bottoms. It was strange to be feeding hay out of the feeder in the dry and hot not so chilly air. To be taking comfort from the blaring sun in the shade of the barn’s roof and feeder was a first and had a rather odd feeling. 

Much too soon the winter months would be upon us, and I would have three layers of clothing on, below zero muck boots, and heated feeding gloves. Even with all that attire to ward off the weather my joints would be snap, cracking, and popping and as cool as my grandsons thought those sounds to be, they were anything but delightful. Just hearing them now in the warmth of the autumn day I knew in my heart this winter would be my last with the cows, in this second home of mine. It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever made but I had to protect my joints from further unrepairable damage in the ways I had control over.  

Yes, the sweet-smelling barley and alfalfa hay would be aromas I would have to conjure up next winter bringing a smile of joy to rest across my face on a cold dark day; or the feeling of warmth being engulfed by the cows in the feeder while I raked hay out providing a blanket of coziness to my lonely heart as I rested in my overstuffed chair watching the snow fall. Each season that came this coming year would supply me with memories I could hold unto for all times sake. This last year of being the Amateur Cow Whisperer I would take in stride with all the tenacity I could muster up. 

God had already begun to make way for new dreams to come to life for me. Paths I had long ago diverted from were now right at my fingertips, literally, a publisher had just accepted one of my manuscripts. Yesterday they had called and offered me a contract. 

I looked down the feeder one last time before heading home, thirteen cow faces looked back at me. By weeks end there would only be ten. I shook my head in disbelief at the thought. Ten cows. All those years ago I started with ten cows and now I would finish with ten cows too. In the hundreds of cows that had been born on the ranch under my care I could still remember each of them and all the seasons that brought me to where I was today. How fitting to begin and end the same. God continues to bless me!