Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, April 16, 1995 TAG: 9504180041
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: D-3 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MARGIE FISHER EDITORIAL WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
But I think someone should say a kind word or two about cows - of which there are about 1.75 million in Virginia (with an estimated value of at least $1 billion), and 2,500 right here in suburbanized Roanoke County.
I know that from having called the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences at Virginia Tech. Almost everything else I know about cows could be printed on the side of a half-pint milk carton. But after a lifetime of paying no heed to cows, other than to notice them gathered in football-like huddles when I'd drive along country roads, I've concluded they're not the dull animals I'd always assumed them to be.
They're much smarter than most of us city slickers imagine; actually have interesting personalities; and, for all their herding instincts, often show streaks of independence and an adventurous spirit much like - well, cats.
Visiting a friend who raises Anguses in Fluvanna County, I'm no longer surprised to pull up to the 19th-century farmhouse and find a few calves standing near the front door eating the 19th-century boxwood.
The long driveway to my friend's house is equipped with 6-by-12-foot concrete grids separating the hay fields from the yard - treacherous-looking obstacles I'm reluctant to walk across for fear of misstepping and breaking an ankle. The grid manufacturer's literature promised that they would make the yard cattle-proof. No way would the cloven-hoofed animals risk crossing those grids.
But, as my friend says, the calves didn't read the literature. He's forever chasing the teen-agers back to their mamas, only to look out the window minutes later and see them back at it, chowing down like their human counterparts at an all-you-can-eat pizza party.
I've never seen this, but my friend swears it's true: Some of the young cows can leap the grids as gracefully as a gazelle.
Some experts tend to disparage the intelligence of cattle vis-a-vis horses, dogs and, of course, cats. They suggest, for instance, that while people may give them names, the creatures are too slow-witted to respond to their names. That may be true, but Short-Ears seems to know her name. Perhaps, of course, she just hears things differently from other cows - the tips of her ears having frozen off when she was a calf (and thus the name).
It's hard to say whether Omar the bull knew his name. But Omar, recently retired from a long and distinguished stud-service career at my friend's farm, knew enough to demand a gourmet menu to keep up his strength. A 2,200-pounder when he arrived in Fluvanna County with champion status from the Tennessee State Fair, Omar had, it seems, been sorely humiliated awhile back when a much younger and smaller bull from a neighboring farm got to lusting for Omar's ``women.''
As my friend tells it, the bulls had been exchanging harsh words across the fence that divided the two farms. One day, heading off for Richmond, my friend warned his neighbor that he'd best keep an eye on the situation or else the testosterone-challenged smaller bull was likely to get hurt.
Returning to his farm that evening, my friend saw that 150 feet of fencing between the farms was down and that the smaller bull was standing in the midst of Omar's harem with a satisfied smile. Some hours later, Omar was found hiding in the woods many acres away from the scene of his embarrassment.
When Omar started losing weight, his owner began hand-feeding him from a bucket a special mixture of corn, grain, soybeans and bull-enhancing nutrients generously laced with molasses. This cuisine was a big hit with Omar, so much so that he would come to the gate and beg like a poodle. I heard it myself: his standing there making pitiful little feed-me, feed-me sounds.
I've dared not ask my friend whence Omar has been retired. I am aware, of course, that these animals - gentle and sweet-eyed except when they're protecting a new baby - are not kept at that farm as pets. That was firmly pressed upon me during the bitter, cold winter of '93-'94, when my friend and I would commiserate long-distance as to icy conditions, and which of us at the moment did or did not have electricity and heat.
A couple of nights, I nagged him to bring his ``outdoor dogs'' into his house for warmth, and to make sure they had water - my own 10-year-old Lab, the gorgeous Hedy Lamarr, comfortably reclining on the couch at the time, nibbling pate on toast points and sipping Quibell. (And to think, as some comedian quipped, I knew her when she was happy to drink out of toilet bowls.)
OK, OK, he said. And what about the cows? asked I. His answer was something like ``bovine scatology!''
Anyway, yes, I know that from time to time the cow population at the farm changes, that some of the animals have been loaded onto trucks and trains and sent out West, there to be further fattened up for their ultimate destiny. I know it, but I only half-heartedly accept it - and, having known these cows personally, it's certainly affected the way I feel about prime ribs.
by CNB