by Darol Dickinson
Our family had an early grade A dairy, milking about 20 cows. I was age 8. We would return from some local trip and find cows all over the yard with fences in disrepair. Cattle would be mixed together that weren't supposed to be. It wasn't just the destroyed fences. Several times a year, we'd find cows cut and gashed from barbed wire -- some with udders so damaged they couldn't be milked. (Picture a dairy cow racing through barbed wire: what part hangs down?) Time would pass, then in a month, the dairy cows would stampede, with more udder damage, sometimes during the night, sometimes the day. Dad was mad at the ring-leader cow who was organizing this riot, over and over. His first suspect was the bull -- yet, no, he was too lazy.
Dad was mad, even at the family dog, "Amber." He thought if neighbor dogs were chasing cows, Amber should wake her lazy self up, get off the porch, and make some herd-protection effort.
Back in those days, we had dogs, but no one knew their pedigrees. Amber was an old mossy-faced, fat, yellow dog. Dad called her an "air-plain dog," part Airedale and part just plain dog. She was very fertile and had pups every few months. Local assortments of male dogs came and said hello frequently. Her current family of 6 was about 7 months old.Dad suspected the neighbor dogs were chasing the cows, maybe coyotes. Even us kids talked about "Big Foot" or the big bad wolf that chased Little Red Riding Hood.
We came home from church one Sunday. My sister and I were fighting in the back seat and the wind was really blowing when Dad suddenly stomped on the brakes. To his surprise, ol' Amber and her 6 pups were having a cow-run party. Cattle were all over our front yard and road. Dad got 100% mad at about the same speed as he jammed on the brakes. He shouted for Mom to take us into the house. I heard 6 or more loud shots from his old double-barrel 12 gauge. When we were allowed to go back outside, we saw a little hair and hide. Amber, the old, friendly, highly fertile dog, had cost Dad a lot of money -- but never again.
Jump forward 70 years. Recently here in Ohio, we found a huge section of fence destroyed and dozens of cattle miles south of headquarters. A week later, a north-section fence was demolished. Then, a third time, at first light, we found a roan-speckled cow was right up as close to the corrals as she could get. She had been battling a dog pack most of the night. Finally exhausted, she had collapsed and the dogs ate their prize -- her udder. She was a tough-hided Longhorn, so her udder was the tender part to tear into. She had lost a lot of blood and was very weak. Of course, if she survives, she will never produce milk again.