Twenty-something odd years ago, we had a Chocolate Labrador Retriever named Judy. She was a beautiful dog - full of life. She would run around the farm, chasing rabbits. It was a favorite pastime of Judy's. One fall afternoon, we were harvesting in the very last field right next to the shop, ten minutes from being finished. Judy was doing her thing, chasing rabbits in the field. As you harvest, the area that the rabbits can hide gets smaller and smaller.
The rabbit saw its chance to run and took it. Trouble is, Judy ran, too - right into the cutterbar of the combine. The sharp teeth on the combine cut deep into Judy. She was cut up - really bad. She looked up at me with those big yellow eyes, whimpering in pain. I remember Dad asking me if we could save her. I shook my head, no. She was injured very badly and could not be saved. Reluctantly, I got the gun from the truck and put Judy to rest. It was a hard thing to do. We buried her right there in the bottom cut of that field where she had gotten so much joy chasing cottontails.
Why am I telling you this painful story? Because, sometimes animals we love get hurt. Animals we get attached to are suffering, and a hard decision has to be made. Last week I told you that Clarabelle, one of our Jersey cows that we JUST dried off after milking her for a year and three months, got injured. It was a freak accident. The two heifers, LuLu and Elsie (Clarabelle's heifer), were horsing around. One of them was in heat and they were all jumping on each other the way that animals do. Somehow, one of them jumped on top of Clarabelle and injured her back.
We called the vet out for a farm call. He looked her over and theorized that Clarabelle had a back injury (slipped disk) or perhaps a pulled muscle. He gave her a shot and said she may get up later that day or the next morning. He also prepared us that she might NOT get up. Clarabelle was on the clock.
Every day following, Tricia and I went out to the pasture where she had fallen and flipped her over, two times a day, to make sure her leg wouldn't go to sleep and give her a different vantage point. That's not an easy thing to do with a large animal. It was hot and it rains every day. Lots of mud and mosquitoes and deer flies. We'd bring her sweet feed and fresh water, gave her a shot of BoSe, drenches of molasses, and we'd pick fresh sweet potato vines for her to eat from the garden (her favorite). We'd sit with her and tell her what a good cow she was.
She would try to get up, but her back legs would not work. It was hot and so we built a tent of sorts out of t-posts and a tarp to keep her cool. She never stopped eating and drinking water, but she was deteriorating day by day. The other animals would come visit her under the medical tent.
She would get week and fall sideways, struggling to breathe. Tricia and I would rush out there in the mud, pushing and pulling on her to get her back upright. We finally got a bale of hay down from the hayloft and positioned it against her body to keep her propped up. It became all too apparent that this wasn't going to end well. She was breathing heavy and groaning. She was suffering, and I couldn't allow it to go on.
Early Friday afternoon I got my handgun and made a slow, long walk to where she lay. I didn't even tell Tricia I was going. Clarabelle had fallen once again and had mud all over her and was panting. I talked to my girl and told her how sorry I was that it had come to this. I told her again what a good cow she had been, giving us good heifers and winning many ribbons and plaques for Russ and Benjamin in livestock shows. She was our family cow and had produced hundreds and hundreds of gallons of milk that nourished our family. But is was time. Rest in Peace, Clarabelle.
