A Final Entry, Part 1: Unfortunate Calf Conditions

So this is my last planned entry (broken in two for lengths sake) in regards to my long trek.  If I was smart I'd throw out some very specific numbers.  People like hearing numbers about mileage and dollars per mile, etc. but the truth is I don't much care to relate.  Suffice it to say, I went a really long way.  It might have been 3000 miles; it might have been closer to 4000.  I spent a lot of money.  It was about $1 per mile (assuming that it was 3 to 4 thousand miles).  Maybe, in fact, that's not a lot of either distance or money, but It seemed like a lot to me.

The final thoughts I really want to share are about what I did in the year since.  So here are a few:

Unfortunate Calf Conditions.  Again.:

I went on the trip to try to let go of a lot of pent up anger.  It almost worked.  In fact I think it would have worked entirely if not for what I found when I got home.  My brother Joe had taken great cares to better the conditions of our heifer lots, but there is only so much a single person can do.  In the meanwhile, the persons (predominantly my father) in charge of our nursery calves had once again let their conditions decline.

This issue was the core of my anger at my father to begin with and, once again, here it was rearing its ugly head.  The animals were far too large for their pens.  One had an infected, swollen leg which it was not receiving antibiotics for.  Another few were suffering from severe bloat, and the calf nursery absolutely reeked of ammonia.  Many were covered in caked manure and a few of the older ones were in danger of losing their tails due to dingles. Although dad ignored all of that, he was concerned, however, with the calf that had collapsed due to malnutrition.

I was upset.

Instead of raising merry hell, I instead set about cleaning up the pens, reorganizing the animals, and building larger group pens with more space for them to winter in inside the nursery.  It was a bit difficult, but shouldn't have been too bad.  It only took about two days labor, albeit in some very cold and unpleasant weather conditions.  The chore wouldn't have been difficult at all if so many of the wire panels I was given for pen building hadn't been partially buried in the frozen earth.  They were the only panels available, of course, and they had been slowly sinking into the mud for the better part of a decade.

The real trouble was when dad tried to stop me.  Again.  Once he saw that it would be a bad chore in bad weather to get the panels free he decided to order me to postpone the enterprise for a few more days.  It didn't occur to him, I guess, that a few days of extremely bad weather in bad sanitary conditions were exactly what the animals could no longer afford.  So I got mad, and I told him off, and he left me alone.

In his own words, he said I looked, "possessed".  This was when I learned that he would let me do what needed done if he was afraid of whatever anger I might react with.  So I kept my anger and I used it for a year.

I held conferences with the vet.  I ordered antibiotics.  I researched better electrolytes.  I overhauled our sanitation rules.  I separated feeding equipment for use on sick calves from the equipment for non-sick ones.  I learned to give fluids intravenously (although usually too late).  I learned when it was too late.  I spread lime everywhere.  I instigated a more rigorous policy for new born inoculations.  I began a quarantine program for bull calves that were to be sold (and thus couldn't be inoculated).  I cleaned up piles and piles and piles of junk.  I built calf pens where the junk used to be.  I had hundreds of gallons of used motor oil removed from the homestead.  I threw out the vet supplies labeled 1955.  I finished the birthing pens that Dad began to build in 1999 before he lost interest.  I got my brother to help me install better ventilation in the calf nursery.  I helped Joe keep the heifers and keep them well.

I fought my father every step of the way.

I lost four heifer calves to disease this year before I was able to break the disease cycle.  I raised 53 of them.  To put this in perspective my father's usual record was to raise about 30 and lose about 20 to disease.  He would lose 2 out of every 5 and I reduced it to less than 2 out of every 28.

He wasn't happy with me.  He was happy with the results, but he wasn't happy about how each time I disobeyed a direct order it worked out splendidly.  The farm has never run so efficiently and at such a high profit margin.  Part of this is because market prices are excellent right now.  Part of it is because he no longer has to take dead animals away and bury them by the dozen.

He told me repeatedly this year that he feels like he can't trust me; that he can't count on me to listen to him and do as he says.  This is true.  I now value my judgement above his own.  When I point out how many tens of thousands of dollars of additional living, breathing livestock he has, he gets quiet.  When I point out that it's all a direct result of things I did that he specifically ordered me not to do, he gets a sad look in eyes and asks me not to keep reminding him.  He doesn't disagree.  He just says it's harsh of me to say it out loud.

It's hard to help a man despite himself.  Everything would have been so much easier if he would have helped me from the start instead of trying to thwart my efforts.  I often had no back-up, knowing that if I made a single mistake I would have a devil's mountain of "I-told-you-not-to-do-that" to contend with.

Fortunately, I never made a mistake I couldn't handle on my own.  It was close sometimes, though.  I really missed having him to fall back on.