A load of bull

Mrs Burnett works on a micro dairy-slash-beef farm, milking the ladies a couple of times a week and making yoghurt and suchlike. Quick reminder that I’m allergic to milk and can no longer ride in my own car because it’s so stinky.

Part of the job is looking after the babies – Laura loves that part, bottle feeding the teeniest and making sure everyone else gets a good helping from the suckling bucket. There’s also a strong requirement to give the cows pastoral scritching should they require it.

A month or two back there was a sad occasion in the beef herd where a little baby bull calf was born but his mum died giving birth. I say little, this baby was an absolute unit, and perhaps as a result of his traumatic entry to the world, an absolute thicko. He ended up in with the milk herd babies as an orphan and massively struggled to learn how to drink from a bottle. I visited the farm one Saturday while Laura was milking and spent over an hour trying to coax a couple of litres of milk down his reluctant throat.

The baby bounced right back, and we gave him the nickname Chonky. I visited him a few times and got regular updates from the farm that he was getting stronger and jaipsing around with the others. Chonky was unusual in having an affinity toward people – especially unusual from the beef herd. A pure soul, always ready for a cuddle and a scratch beneath the chin, his lower teeth would jut out in a goofy half smile.

Today I had a message from Laura that she’d spotted the knacker man and his van in the yard taking a cow away – Chonky died in the night and was found this morning. No one’s quite sure why the little fellow died, but it’s hit our household particularly hard. Perhaps we’re not cut out for the harsh realities of country life – how many thousands of cows died just today? – but it was a privilege to know this sweet little guy if only for a few weeks.