Fat Hat II had hung around during our search and as soon as she saw us approach the right spot she came over so that we all arrived together. We picked up the little bundle and walked home. Fat Hat II followed closely; she was very perplexed. She was pleased to have her calf back but could not understand why she was unable to fulfil the role of mother. The calf was too frail to be able to stand or suckle from her so Fat Hat II stood by as onlooker while we warmed and dried and fed and nursed her daughter. Like an understudy in the wings she knew her role but was not called on to play it. We took milk from her and gave it to the calf in very small and frequent feeds. Fat Hat II sometimes seemed concerned and loving, sometimes feigned indifference, but she regularly showed us a sort of baffled gratitude.
If Black Hat, as we called the new arrival, had been human she would have been both frail and pale but as she was an enchanting blue-black roan being pale was not an option. She must nonetheless have felt pale, and for ten long weeks we nursed her. She was dainty, delicate, featherlight, intelligent, responsive and uncomplaining throughout. It took us three days to persuade Fat Hat II to go off and graze, having told her she had to eat in order to go on producing milk for her calf. On day two we offered her a chance to go for a walk but if she took ten steps forward she immediately came hurrying as many back to check on her daughter. We used more persuasive tactics on day three and as soon as she reached the field the wonderful taste of the grass preoccupied her completely. She stayed away for two hours then came back on duty. Gradually she developed a routine consisting of sustained hard grazing and popping back to see the patient.
Black Hat had contracted double pneumonia during her unhappy time in the dark, cold wood and her recovery seemed to take an eternity but gradually she became stronger and learned to suckle from her mother. Fat Hat II longed to take her daughter with her when she went out into the fields. She talked to her about it, called to her and did everything she could think of to persuade her to come out. But Black Hat knew she was still too weak.
One warm, windless day we popped Black Hat into the Land Rover and took her out into the fields. We drove up to Fat Hat II and lifted her daughter carefully out in front of her. Fat Hat II was so pleased. She mooed lovingly, proudly, licked her cursorily, walked round and round in dizzy disbelief, then she thanked us. And then the trouble began.
We knew Black Hat needed to be with her mother to learn to graze and to become gradually accustomed to and integrated into the herd. She was, however, still very fragile and we also knew that the process would be far from straightforward.
After less than an hour on the first day it began to rain. We flew up to the field, collected Black Hat and brought her home. Fat Hat II was furious.
Unfortunately the weather interfered often and Fat Hat II could not understand why we gave then took away her calf. Every time she saw the Land Rover, even if Black Hat was standing by her side, she would march up to the window, thrust her head right in and examine every corner. She had become suspicious of our actions and, it is painful to remember, she became very uncooperative and generally unfriendly to me.
Fat Hat II did not stop liking all human beings, just me. She still liked my mother who had, in fact, masterminded the slow-release plan and who kept watch for every spot of rain but did not physically remove Black Hat (although she was always present). Fat Hat II watched who did what and behaved accordingly.
Slowly, slowly, Black Hat grew stronger. By the time she was five months old she was a permanent member of the herd and quite independent. Fat Hat II, once she had her daughter all to herself, taught her to mistrust me. My two best friends, who had relied on me so absolutely through such difficult times, wanted no more to do with me. I was proud of them both and pleased to see them behaving normally, and I still spoke to them. But Black Hat ignored me and Fat Hat II shook her head at me angrily and if I got too close she would biff me with it. Luckily she had no horns. Even the following winter, when bad weather forced the whole herd to spend quite a lot of time in the barns, I would have to be careful walking among them. Sometimes, with a bale of hay on my back, I would suddenly find myself winded and would look round to see Fat Hat II intent on reminding me that I had done her an injury. It took three years before she forgave me.
Most stories do not have endings: I relate incidents or events and once they are over life goes on. But the story of Fat Hat II had a beginning, a life and an ending.
My mother had a special relationship with Fat Hat II; it began the day she was born. At three hours old she high-step-trotted down the field to introduce herself, leaving her mother behind (as you will perhaps remember, Fat Hat herself did not like people).
The friendship remained strong through all the vicissitudes of Black Hat I’s infancy, was strong throughout the youth of Black Hat II and was still strong the day Fat Hat II died.
On the last day of a cold October Fat Hat II gave birth to a beautiful all-black heifer, this time with the assistance of the vet. She would have been called Black Hat III. Three days later, when my mother was in the barn with Fat Hat II and the new calf, she sensed that there was something seriously wrong; in fact, she knew that Fat Hat II was going to die. No one else had noticed anything wrong. The cow had licked and suckled her calf each day and was lying down beside her.
We acted on my mother’s intuition and the vet diagnosed peritonitis, which he said was untreatable and incurable. In order to save her from suffering we had her put to sleep. Before she died she had, with determined and intense eyes, made my mother promise to look after her new calf. This my mother did and Fat Hat II understood. My mother never broke a promise, and this one took quite a bit of keeping, with ingenuity, determination and cunning all playing their part. Fat Hat II’s niece, Roan Bonnet, had calved a few days earlier and her son, the Duke of Lancaster, did not yet require all her milk. Her milk-producing ability had improved since the Bishop of Durham was born, and her milk was likely to be similar in quality to Fat Hat II’s as they were the same breed (both Beef Shorthorn) and related. We asked Roan Bonnet to adopt the orphan who was now officially known as Jane Eyre. She was not keen on the idea.
While she was tied up in the cow pen Roan Bonnet seemed happy to give us milk in exchange for barley and apples and sweet hay, so instead of a milking machine we let Jane Eyre do the milking. Roan Bonnet was no fool, however, and as soon as she caught sight of Jane out of the corner of her eye she moved from side to side to make suckling impossible. This was where Lancaster came to the rescue. We positioned him close to his mother, so that whenever she looked round she only saw her own calf while Jane tucked in behind and had a good drink. For several weeks we had to rely on Lancaster’s good nature, making him stand in as a bodyguard to his adopted sister.
This was a time-consuming business, as we always had to tie Roan Bonnet up, but just before Jane Eyre was two months old Lancaster worked out a solution that benefited everyone: whenever he wanted a drink he would call to Jane to come and have one as well, even if she was some distance away. A while later he decided to take on our job of grooming her as well. Jane and Lancaster became very firm friends, and even two years later, having perhaps spent weeks apart, they would meet and settle down next to each other, looking at the view and discussing this and that.
Before this happy state reigned there was one unfortunate incident. One day out in the field, Jane asked Roan Bonnet for a drink with Lancaster nowhere around. Roan Bonnet kicked Jane. A large lump appeared on Jane’s hip, growing larger daily. Strangely, it did not make her limp or seem to give her pain and she still behaved normally, playing games with Lancaster and Billy and Gulliver, all of whom had been born within days of each other. (Alfred, son of Ditch-Hog, was of course not allowed to play with hoi polloi but that is another story.)
We felt very reluctant to consult the vet: Jane Eyre’s older sister, the first Black Hat, had endured so much medical attention that we did not want to embark on any medication with Jane unless absolutely necessary. Instead, we decided to t
ry homeopathy. This subject merits a whole chapter in our lives as farmers but suffice it to say here that on this occasion it worked. Less than twenty-four hours after administering the prescribed treatment the lump had burst, seemingly without pain. Two days later the evidence of any injury was impossible to detect; we soon forgot which side it had been on, and we hope Jane did too.
Cows have preferences
A word here, while on the subject of Hats and Bonnets, about Bonnet herself. She was the first daughter, although the tenth calf, of the original Fat Hat and quite a cow in her own right. Bonnet loved apples. Most cows do, and so do sheep and pigs and birds, but Bonnet used to think about them even out of season. Whenever she saw us, her eyes would ask us if we had an apple or even a pear. During her long life she managed to communicate a number of different questions with different types of stare.
Our Laxton Fortunes and Newton Wonders stored well, on wooden slats suspended high up in an airy barn, until March and sometimes, iffily, to the end of May. Also, space was found in a cold store, thus ensuring a constant, if limited, supply all year. So Bonnet was seldom disappointed during the months when the grass was scarce. Somehow she knew when the first of the new season’s crop, the Worcester Pearmains, were beginning to ripen and she would be under the tree on the right day to reach up to the lower boughs and pick up any within reach. Five or six weeks later she would be stationed under the Lord Derby, much, much more sour apples to us, but they were all sweet to Bonnet.
All the other cows ate apples singly. Bonnet could eat four at once, effortlessly. Strangely we gave the title of the Apple Eaters not to Bonnet and her family, all of whom inherited or copied her passion for apples, but to Jacques and Maurice, an unlikely pair of friends brought together by common misfortune.
Jeanine, mother of Jacques, and Highnoon VII, mother of Maurice, both died within a fortnight of each other. We did not introduce the two boys, as both had friends of their own and both had kindly older sisters, and because there was also several months’ difference in their ages which, to cattle, is usually significant. They found each other, however, and struck up a lasting friendship. We gave them both extra attention in our usual bid to help them through a trauma and one of the tactics we used was a daily ration of apples. They both learned about these very quickly. As soon as the Land Rover entered the field and drove among the cattle Maurice and Jacques would place themselves strategically to catch our eyes. Jacques would later learn to put his head through the open window so no other animal would get his allocation by mistake. Maurice was slightly more reticent and would loiter near the back of the vehicle and wait to be noticed. Jacques was a magnificent Hereford, red with a white face, and Maurice was an inconspicuous but canny Lincoln Red, but the Apple Eaters stuck together through thick and thin.
Eye contact
It is hard to write about cattle on this farm without bumping into incidents involving members of the Hat family. On 9 January 1995 Little Bonnet and her son Smasher, July Bonnet and her son JB, and Roan Bonnet and her son Red Rum were brought down to the farm buildings so that the bull calves could be counted and have their ear numbers read by the ‘man from the Ministry’. This inadvertently left Christmas Bonnet, July’s younger sister, with no family and ipso facto no friends. The next morning when my mother and I went to the Monument Field to feed the cattle, Christmas Bonnet stared very hard first at me and then at my mother, walking from one side of the Land Rover to the other and fixing us both in turn. It took quite a few minutes before we realised what she was trying to tell us and, when we did, we both apologised to her and promised to bring her home as soon as we could. This could not be straight away, though, because my brother was away all day and we had extra work to do. When Richard arrived home later that evening he saw Christmas Bonnet standing in the yard with the house cows, with whom he knew she did not belong, and staring across the road to the barns on the other side. He mentioned to us that she was there and we were able to explain the whole story to him, realising that she must have negotiated three hedges, fences or gates in order to bring herself home. Once the family was reunited they all had apples for tea.
Another bovine who achieved a lot by staring was Black Wendy II, subsequently known as Friendly Wendy. One winter she began to look a bit thinner than her contemporaries and we decided to give her some extra food each evening. She very soon learned to walk home with the milkers, but on one occasion we were delayed by unexpected visitors and her usual feeding time came and went. Wendy found a way out of the field and, spotting a man who was taking a holiday in our farm cottage, she proceeded to fix him with a stare. In fact, she followed him as far as she could and watched his every move as he pottered in the garden. He told her, as he later related to us, that although he could not fathom her wishes he would consult the appropriate authorities on her behalf. He walked the hundred yards to our house, with Wendy following. This manoeuvre resulted in the awaited food and every day thereafter Wendy, having observed everything, came to stand outside our kitchen window and stare silently until we noticed her.
Cows remember
One of the nicest attributes a cow can possess is a good memory. I say this from the human perspective of course, though I dare say a good memory is also useful to a cow. Sometimes work allocation might prevent one of us from seeing a particular group of cattle for several weeks, although someone else in the family might see that same group each day. No matter how long the parting, we are always individually remembered. Cows have their favourite people as well as vice versa. Sheep also have long and accurate memories. It seems now to be an accepted fact that they can recognise at least fifty of their individual companions. From experience I conclude that they remember all of the human beings they have ever known. The evidence I have seen indicates that they recognise us by our voices but perhaps they notice what we look like, how we walk or even our height.
A little bit about horses
In the early 1960s we had two ponies. The older, cleverer and more stubborn mare, who was plagued with arthritis, toppled upside-down into the ditch one day and was hopelessly wedged. Unusually, my father went to the field that day to catch and take the younger pony to be shod. The pony allowed himself to be haltered then absolutely refused to leave the field. Instead, he steadily pulled my father downhill towards the ditch. This extremely atypical behaviour saved the life of the old girl and we were moved and pleased to see that the younger pony had stamped the ground down almost level with the ditch in an effort to try to save his friend single-handedly.
A digression on sheep, and pigs and hens
Cattle play a major part in our lives and the more natural or wild their existence, the more fascinating it is to observe the way they conduct themselves. By the same token, our observations of truly wild animals and birds have been even more rewarding but I will continue my small digression here to talk about sheep and pigs and hens.
Audrey and Sybil, two hand-reared orphan lambs, and Gayle Elspeth Rosie, a pig known as Piggy, were quite remarkable in their own particular ways. When she arrived here in a shoebox on 20 June 1985 aged one month and one day, Piggy was just seven inches long from the tip of her nose to the tip of her out-stretched tail. The lambs, Audrey and Sybil, were both born on 22 March the same year.
Piggy had been born on an intensive farm, and bodily thrown out immediately because she was ‘too small to bother with’. Gayle worked on the farm, and had rescued Piggy and reared her on baby food. She looked after Piggy in her second-floor flat with the help of her Alsatian, but she knew that Piggy could eventually weigh sixty scores and would be unable to continue her upstairs existence long before that, so she searched for a permanent home for Piggy before they became too attached to one other. I was contacted through Elspeth, a mutual friend.
Piggy did not like being taken away from her nice home and she made a one-day token protest by burrowing into a large pile of straw, from which she would not emerge (except to eat and drink when we were not looking). On the second day she
decided to make the best of her new circumstances and agreed to allow us to spoil her and wait on her. She came with us in the Land Rover on trips round the farm, being gently lifted in and out and enjoying immense fun in the hay field burrowing under the neatly turned rows of hay. Even three months later, by which time she was much bigger and very heavy, she would enthusiastically accompany us on walks, even uphill, though she would insist on being carried all the way home.
When Piggy and Audrey met for the first time it was a surprising meeting of equals. Piggy was only a quarter as big as Audrey, who stared down at this extraordinary little thing with intimidating superiority. Piggy did not move a muscle. Nose to nose they stared at each other and after two motionless minutes came to an understanding that quickly grew into a strong friendship. Neither had ever known a mother.
The Secret Life of Cows Page 6