The Accidental Agrarian

Here is an udder. Bridget’s udder. I am sure she thinks the warm coating of hair all over it is nice. In truth, it is. Soft, hairy, warm, sweet smelling, and despite it’s pendulous nature, everything an udder should be.

However, in a dairy cow, especially a hand milked Jersey, udder hair is a problem. It can get dirty, harbor bacteria, drip wetness into the milk and cause other problems, like shed into the pail. Now, I’m fine with a bit of cow hair in my milk–the post milking filtering process takes care of that–but a speck of mystery dirt is another thing. Apart from all of this, Bridget’s udder hair could lead to mastitis–a bacterial infection of the udder, because of environmental organisms hitching a ride on that bush of downy fluff. The hair had to go.

I spent some time thinking about how to remove Bridget’s nether fluff. She is a fussy girl and a tad vain. She likes to be well groomed, but one doesn’t often broach teat fuzz and udder down with one’s milking partner. It can be a touchy subject. In commercial diaries where udders are tight, high and overly-productive they usually flame them off. Now, I would imagine if asked, any sensitive cow would shrink from the words, propane, flame or singe when mentioned in relation to udder hair. Yet that is just what goes on in the Big Ag high-productive milk world. They burn the hair off of cow’s udders with some sort of contraption, with something called a “cool flame”. I can’t imagine doing it, but I can imagine the pain and bruise on my shin from Bridget’s kick if I held my weed-burner anywhere near her bag. . . .

So option B, available to any self-grooming Everyman–the cordless personal grooming clippers. Yes, the very self-same thing I use to shave my head. I chose my Cordless Conair groomer because it was cordless and seemed like it would cause the least offense. I was worried a bit that the buzzing sound might cause Bridget to think a swam of bees was flitting about her udder, but I’m a man of adventure and decided to risk it. Yesterday found me letting Bridget into her stanchion mid-day with the lure of extra alfalfa.

With more than a little trepidation I turned the clippers on and gently brushed it against her fur, high enough to stay clear of the bag itself. I had a get away plan should she lash out with hoof, but I was sure to get kicked somewhere. It’s a delicate thing shaving a fussy cow. You have to have your face close enough to her udder to see what you’re doing and not nick it. That also means you’re head is close enough to a hoof which could crack it like a nut.

My fears were allayed when, after the first stroke and then another and another, I realized I was peeling neat piles of hair off her sack, getting quite a close shave. Certainly close enough to prevent udder balm, all gooey and mud caked, from clinging on, and close enough to be able to get a really good wash at milking time. In no time I had trimmed Bridget’s udder to a satisfactorily smooth state. She, being a vain cow, realizing the service I was doing her, stood there contentedly scarfing down every particle of the alfalfa I had laid before her. Five minutes and Cow Grooming 101 was over. Much relieved, I let Bridget out of the stall with appropriate praise and compliments on being the prettiest cow in the paddock. Flattery is everything with cows, whether they know they’re the only cow in the paddock or not. I was so chuffed at my success that I forgot about the neat pile of fuzz laying on the hay in the stall. I floated home on wings of success and had my own lunch.

So what’s the big deal? I hear you ask. Why all the fuss? And why the bizarre title to this piece? Why indeed. Later, in the evening, when I came up for milking I barely noticed the profusion of songbirds scattering as I approached the little byre in the field. Switched on to autopilot and thinking of getting home in a timely fashion for dinner I prepped Bridget for milking and sat down to her clean, smooth-ish udder, grabbed two teats and began to milk. I then noticed the forgotten udder hair. Or, rather, the almost total lack of udder hair on the hay where it had been. Where had it gone? It wasn’t windy out. It was an exceptionally still day. I tried to focus on milking while glancing around to see where the neat little pile had been spread. To no avail. It was mostly gone.

Gone away on the wing, I surmised. Why else the profusion of small birds scurrying around almost unnoticed on my approach earlier. As I rhythmically tugged at Bridget’s teats, listening to her quiet gurglings; low chomping, alfalfa masticating sounds; and the alternate Splish, Splosh in the pail I envisioned the hair flying away to line so many nests. Was it one industrious bird with an eye for quality materials or a group? One species, or many opportunistic individuals drawn to this hay-strewn, farmyard Ikea of domestic nest design? As I massaged Bridget’s smooth udder and dodged her tail swapping me in the face, reminding me to stay focused on the task–or teats–at hand, the image of that flame “clipper” crowded into my head.

If Bridget lived on any other sort of dairy farm then our small, diverse holding, she would have been flame clipped. There would have been the stench of burned hair, but no small pile of fluffy, avian building material. Likewise, on that commercial dairy there would be the usual profusion of drenches, sprays, crop pesticides and ammonium and silage stench. If there were any birds they would surely be discouraged from flitting into the milking barn for fear of contamination. There would be no endless chorus for Bridget, or the milker, to hear and enjoy.

But beyond the obvious chorus of bird song which songbirds are known for, there is a large air-force of pest control specialists which has been abandoned or forgotten. On most farms birds are looked at lump-sum style. They are pests which ravage crops, or contaminate feed, or in the case of raptors and livestock, eat profits.�� They are a pest to be deterred, if they even survive. Modern farming practices destroy wild bird habitat and kill nesting birds at an alarming rate. The countryside, the very place of open spaces and natural surroundings, is loosing its native birds rapidly.

However, songbirds are important assert to any farm. Some songbirds can eat up to 300 insects a day.�� A healthy bird population on the farm can mean millions less predatory insect species damaging crops or attacking livestock. Likewise, a healthy songbird population means a healthy raptor population. Hawks, Merlins, Falcons, and Owls will be kept around by the food source songbirds represent, but they will remain on the farm to help control rodents, which they prefer. I think any sane farmer would welcome these free pest control solutions. Yet, this service remains underutilized and remains threatened.

The practices of modern farming have little place for nature or wildlife. Beneficial species–whether they are plant or animal–are looked upon with the same suspicious eye which groups all birds into one category. The rigid Agribusiness structures and tight financial squeezes of today’s farming world leave little quarter for the udder hair for pest control barter system. Solutions come ready made with easy application instructions. Indiscriminate and broad spectrum.

So, I am happy that the product of 5 minutes effort on a sunny February day, cast off fluff, barely worth a thought, can become an integral part of the farm-life web. Let the Juncos, Sparrows, Wrens and Brown Creepers, the Warblers, Siskins and Towhees take what they want from the milking shed,�� from the piles of feed sack’s string in the grain store, or the hay loft. From one end of the farm to the other I will happily barter away my chaff this spring so they can pay me back with their services–pest control with a song in their heart.

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This entry was posted by Podchef on Monday, February 16th, 2009 at 5:13 pm and is filed under Commentary, Dairy, Farming. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.