Gimme the Dirt… On The Death Of A Cow

Each morning on this farm, our chores start the same way. My husband Bart is out the door first after slugging back a few cups of coffee. I follow shortly after while rubbing the sand from my eyes, struggling into my barn clothes, and then, out on the porch, pulling on my barn boots. On this particular November morning, I was looking forward to chore time, even though the wind was biting through my long underwear, and sunrise was hours away. Our very best and favorite dairy cow, Brie, had given birth to a lovely bull calf the day before, and the sweetness of a new baby brought me out of my usual sleepwalking as I flipped on the lights of the barn. I’m always greeted by the tall rumps of the dairy cows lined up in their stalls, waiting to be fed and milked. As I walked down the aisle, I took note of each of them, assessing them as Bart taught me to do – first Vroom with her yearling calf Zip, then Red (a steer who’s too young to be out in the freestall), then Brie’s daughter Valle, and next to her Brie’s yearling heifer calf Bolt, then Velvet, and finally Brie way down on the end, with her hours-old calf tethered next to her. But this particular morning, Brie wasn’t standing up. Instead, she lay flat on her side, her head in the manger, legs askew, and breathing heavily. It’s not something a farmer ever wants to see. That morning, for me, the sight was horrifying.

Brie was the only cow not born here. We have what’s called a “closed herd,” meaning we don’t purchase animals from outside our farm. Instead, Bart artificially inseminates our cows, they give birth here, and here they grow up. This is how we’ve built our Wagyu herd and how we manage our little dairy herd. Way back when Brie came to us, Bart had just sold his 50-cow milking herd. She was in a group of replacement heifers he’d purchased to put into the milking line when they grew old enough, but this batch would be raised and sold to other dairies instead of used in his. When Brie started to grow, we realized her potential – she kept herself spotlessly clean, she was a Jersey-Holstein cross (a wonderful cross breed for dairy, especially cheesemaking), and she was calm and friendly. In fact, she was so friendly she’d follow us around when we fed and watered her, begging for scratches and attention – both of which we willingly gave this doe-eyed sweet thing. We decided to keep her, along with two other nice-looking heifers, and we began to plan a microdairy. With Brie as my inspiration, I took an artisan cheesemaking course and started making cheese in earnest.

Brie’s milk was so rich there was butter floating in the can after she was milked. The cheeses I learned to make with it were creamy, melted in our mouths, and tasted of the grasses in the pasture. When we’d call the cows in for evening milking, Bart would yell, “Brie-brie, c’mon girl,” and she’d pick her head up from the tall grass and mosey down to the gate, the other cows in tow. She was less “livestock” and more an important team member – birthing beautiful calves, providing that glorious milk, and, nicest of all, keeping us the very best company. Brie was our peer. With her huge brown eyes and listening ears, we know she took in everything around her, including our conversations and moods. I refuse to anthropomorphize because Brie was one hundred percent bovine, and it was her cow-ness we loved so much, but I swear she understood everything we were saying. The night before she calved, we stood on either side of her, brushing her, rubbing her sturdy shoulders, and telling each other (and her) how beautiful she was. Bart scratched the very top of her tail, the spot she couldn’t reach herself, and she stretched her neck out straight, tipping her head to the side in a way we knew meant it felt sooooo good.

That night, once inside, we talked about the year Brie arrived in our lives, and we realized she was 14 years old – that’s old for a cow. She didn’t look or act it, and we felt she had a few more years left, which warmed our hearts and gave us hope for the cheese I’d make, the future calves she’d have, and the companionship we’d enjoy.

The morning I found her lying in her stall, I called to Bart, “Brie’s down!” and he came running from the upper barn. He took one look at her and pronounced, “Milk fever.” We didn’t have the necessary medications on hand, and the vet didn’t open for another 2 hours. Time is of the essence with milk fever. Actually, it’s of the essence with anything that brings a cow down like that. Cows are either walking around right as rain, or they’re at death’s door. There doesn’t ever seem to be any middle ground. We’d never had an issue with milk fever, and Brie especially had always calved with ease; truly, she hadn’t given us a single moment of trouble a day in her life. At 8:00 a.m. sharp, I called the vet. The receptionist informed me that the large animal vet was booked all day with appointments in the office. I explained that this was an emergency, that this was life-or-death, that this cow was special. In a voice that smacked of corporate customer service training, Stacy said, “Yeahhhh, I’m sorry. We can’t help you today.” I asked if the vet could release the non-prescription medications we needed, and I would drive to pick them up. “No – she won’t do that. She hasn’t seen your cow before.” Her tone made me want to crawl through the phone and…well, let’s just leave it there. We need a vet for our cows when there’s an emergency, and here one was, but she wouldn’t come or even provide the medicine we needed. I called the big-box “farm supply” stores within an hour’s drive. None of them had the medications in stock. I called every large animal vet around – from northern New Jersey to the southern tip of Lake George. No one could come. In one last ditch effort, I started to call other dairy farms, and I keenly felt how small our dairy community has become. Finally, at 11:00, I found the medications we needed – right down the road, at a farm we know well that had shuttered several years ago. Bart went to pick them up, and I collected the items we’d need to administer them – a bottle of alcohol, an IV hose and needle, clean towels, and a bucket of warm water.

We knelt down together alongside Brie, and Bart tied her head into position to find a vein in her neck. Years ago, the old country vet he’d used since he was a teenager (ironically, the office I’d called that morning to no avail) had taught him how to treat milk fever. “I’ll show you what to do; there’s no need to spend money calling me if you know how to do this yourself,” he’d said. So here was Bart, palpating Brie’s neck with sure and gentle fingers, pricking the needle through her tough hide, finding the vein to administer the medicine. I’m a terrible nurse. I was so nervous my hands were shaking, but Bart was calm and steady. He talked to Brie in a low voice, telling her, “It’s okay, girl. This will fix you right up.” The medicine needed to be fed slowly into her; too fast, and it could stop her heart. The second medicine went in more quickly. Brie began to shiver, a sign the medication was working; now, she needed to be warmed up. I plied her with the bucket of warm water, but she turned her nose away. We sat with her for a little while and then left her loose in the barn, with the door open to the sunshine in case she wanted to get up and head outside. An hour later, I checked on her. She was still down, her eyes closed. And then, later, we followed the same routine as before – Bart skillfully administering the medicine, with me next to him, trying to be of some use. That night, we knew it hadn’t worked. Brie’s eyes stayed closed, and she couldn’t get up. When her calf started bleating for food, she tipped an ear toward him and made her mothering, cooing sounds. On a happier day, this is one of my favorite sounds on the farm, the conversation between a mother cow and her newborn calf, but that night, it made me heartsick. I whispered in her ear that I would take such good care of her calf. I cupped her huge, velvety-soft ear in my hands and told her how much I loved her. I watched as my husband knelt beside her, rubbing her side, telling her what a good girl she was, how much he loved her, and other things that belonged just between them. The next morning, Brie was gone.

Brie was what I’d call a “once-in-a-lifetime cow.” For 13 of her 14 years, she was here, keeping us company, having her babies, giving us (and them) the most delicious, nutritious milk, and living her best cow life. I’ve been known to say cows are dumb, but Brie taught me otherwise. Her lack of speed only meant she was deliberate. What might have appeared to some as laziness was, to us, a sign she was content. On turnout day in the spring, when Brie was sent out to her pasture after a long winter, she pranced and frolicked like a young calf. The joy she exuded was contagious, and watching her made us joyful, too.

We hear so often these days how much people love to be able to purchase local food directly from the farm that grew it. Farming is trendy like it’s never been before. But one thing Brie’s death emphasized to us is that farms like ours – small, specialty livestock farms – are islands in a vast ocean, distant from each other, and without necessary local services to help keep us running. Once, when this was a true agricultural community before land was divided up into parcels for weekenders to build hip country retreats, there was Agway, where farmers would see each other to talk about the weather and pick up supplies. It was a place stocked with everything a farmer could need and nothing like the dish towels and mugs made in China lining the shelves in those new “farming” stores. There was a selection of vets to choose from so personalities could mesh and to ensure emergencies would be covered by someone on call. There were machinery dealers and repair shops right down the road, so, if farmers couldn’t fix something themselves, there was someone to turn to who could. There were no “parts runs” to pick up machinery parts from three counties away or waiting for parts to be shipped across the country. There was a local mill where farmers could purchase grain for their animals in small or large quantities. It didn’t need to be trucked in from far away because it was grown nearby. Mostly, there was a community of farmers who relied on each other for information, support, and fellowship – real farmers doing real work on their farms.

We are confident that people who purchase products from us don’t stop to think about the problem-solving that had to happen to bring that food to their plates sustainably. We are cognizant of the environmental impacts of what we do without needing to be reminded of it by snarky armchair farmers on the internet. It will become next-to-impossible to purchase locally, sustainably raised food without the infrastructure farmers need. Brie’s death didn’t just deprive us of her – it showed us just how alone in this farming life we really are. If farmers don’t have the services we need, small, local livestock farms like ours will cease to exist. Losing Brie is one of the most discouraging things that has happened in the life of this small farm because her death feels like a metaphor for small farms in general. We lost a friend because we didn’t have access to the services or supplies that could have saved her. Likewise, when a small farm doesn’t have the resources it needs, it, too, will die.

When I’m posting on social media, I often use the hashtag “no farms, no food.” I often wonder if anyone takes the time to think about what that means. I know we sure do. If there aren’t small, local farms from which to purchase food, where will you get it from? Food will need to be trucked to you, and you won’t know how it was raised. I promise it won’t taste as good or be nearly as good for you. Small farms can’t survive without community infrastructure to support us. And without small farms, this special rural lifestyle is lost forever.

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Rebecca Collins Brooks is a writer and farmstead cheesemaker on Hilltop Farm in Accord, NY. She is the creator and founder of The Meeting of the Milkmaids, a gathering of women working in the cheese and dairy industry. In addition to a small herd of dairy cows, she and her husband Barton raise Wagyu beef, selling meat to customers directly off the farm. Her best friends are two terriers, Winston and Molly; and Sylvie, a truly brilliant barn cat. You can visit the farm by appointment to see where truly good food is grown.

Connect with Rebecca via Instagram @catskillwagyu, on Facebook CatskillWagyu

And check out > INSIDE+OUT Spotlight on Catskill Wagyu at Hilltop Farm