This is Ralphie's second trip to Cornell. The first one, about a year and a half ago, was inconclusive after sophisticated tests, so they sent him home. He's been stumbling again, having trouble with his back end and not being able to get up easily. So back he goes and his friends stay behind, some mooing at the corner of the field closest to where the trailer pulled away, some talking about him in the kitchen.
The steer were quiet all day, and in the heat of late afternoon, sat in a threesome, chewing their cud. I went out to brush them, because Andy loves to be brushed. When he's brushed, he stops chewing and puts his head down in a trance.
It's hot and they're laying in the sun. But none of the coops need to be cleaned. There is nothing to do on this day of the summer solstice, the longest afternoon of the year; nothing to do but go out with the steer on the field in a silent vigil for Ralphie.
A Brief Tutorial on How to Brush the Steer. Or at Least the Steer at WFAS.
1. Assemble your tools.
You'll need a hand, a brush and some flyspray--you might as well flyspray the steer while you're brushing. Even though they were fly-sprayed yesterday, the flies are vicious and predatory.
2. Climb the gate and head out to the steer.
The view from the top of the gate.
3. Start with Andy.
If you start with anyone else, Andy will just get up, come over, horn whoever you're brushing out of the way, and then lick the brush with his giant tongue until you give up and brush him.
Andy chewing his cud--why are cow-teeth so cute? Hard to say.
Note to self: Andy's back hooves need to be trimmed. A professional steer hoof-trimmer did everyone's hooves last month, but here they are, overgrown. Go figure.
4. Brush Elvis and Dylan.
Dylan. Sometimes he doesn't want to be brushed. Or maybe he just resents being last. Today, he lets me brush him and even spray flyspray on his back as I brush.
It's a good idea to leave Dylan for the last because then you can take a break, sit against his stomach and listen to his rumen turn (it sounds like a washing machine changing cycles) while the swallows fly past in front of the mountain rising beyond the field.
Note to self: even Dylan's back hooves are a little long. Starting to question professional steer-hoof-trimmer's credentials. Starting to feel a little guilty for sitting around with Dylan.
It's time to get up anyway and go help Julie feed the pigs.
The problem being that it's really hot and no one wants to get out of their various mud baths. Which, by the way, look like the La Brea tarpits. Stubby sits up momentarily, but he lays right down again.
Julie fails to motivate Oliver to even sit up.
A few pigs meander over to the troughs, but most stay right where they are. Maybe they're leaving it all for a midnight snack tonight, when it cools. No one understands food better than pigs: it's meaning, the timing of eating it, the multitude of varieties of deliciousness. If they're not sick, never question a pig's eating choices. Just watch and learn.
I pick half a watermelon out from the pig produce and bring it to the ladies of the main flock, who rush out from the shade under the coop to eat melon in the sun.
And so ends the longest day of the year. None of the birds want to go into their coops for the night. The light lingers and they stay pecking in their yards. Tomorrow there will be a little less day, we may hear word about Ralphie, we may find watermelon halves in the produce, we may have time to watch the swallows dart through the dust in the evening light, we may feel the world pause again as we sit in a circle with our tribe.
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