Why My Highland Cows Love Humans
When I'm hitching a Highland steer to a cart or heaving a saddle onto Finn, a 2,000-pound Highland steer, a visitor is liable to ask, “Does he mind that?” The answer reveals something interesting.
When I'm hitching a Highland steer to a cart or heaving a saddle onto Finn, a 2,000-pound Highland steer, a visitor is liable to ask, “Does he mind that?” The answer reveals something interesting.
Dairy cows, like those black-and-white Holsteins, are the product of generations of selective breeding aimed at one goal: more milk, and lots of it.
A peaceful morning, a job we love, animals who trust us—none of it comes free. It was bought by people who never came home to mornings like ours. We owe them a quiet kind of gratitude.
Back in the day, horses were the go-to form of transportation, pulling carts and wagons. Cattle can do the same work but are slower. It’s been said that a team of horses can do in one day what it would take an oxen team to do in three. But horses, because they’re fast, run away when spooked. Most cattle are lazy and take a gentler approach.
When we started raising cattle, keeping track of individuals in our 50-head herd was essential. Calves, though adorable, looked alike. Unlike their mothers, I couldn't tell them apart, so we gave each one an ear tag. The numbered tags didn’t bother the animals and made identification easy. Problem solved—almost.
Several years ago, I lost a calf, and I’ve always suspected she swallowed metal. Without an autopsy, I’ll never know for sure. But the signs of hardware disease are hard to miss.