The term "down cow" is not a common one outside the dairy industry, so maybe it didn't give you the sinking feeling in your gut that I get when I hear it. Maybe it sounds like some odd syllables that don't normally go together. You can probably take a crack at the meaning, possibly without understanding the portent. Well, I can tell you--it sounds like exactly what it is, even to the untrained ear: on Wednesday, April 1st, my little milk cow could not stand up. She was down, and the most she could do was crawl on her knees. As of morning chores she had been getting up and eating, but by afternoon chores around 1 PM she was barely even trying to get up--just lying down and, when I tried to get her up, acting as though she had no interest in being alive anymore.
Now a cow is quite different from most other livestock when it comes to going down. When a goat goes down, for the most part, if she isn't super weak or in terrible pain, you can put her back on her feet yourself. If a horse is in enough pain that it can't get up, it probably isn't going to lie down in the first place. (Not to say that horses never get "cast," or stuck lying down, in their stalls--but believe me, if it happens, there is reason to panic! Also, don't panic. I digress.) But a cow is uniquely large and also uniquely required by nature to lie down. They really have to lie down, at least a couple of times every day, or they don't digest their food correctly. Lying down puts pressure on their rumen, letting them burp up their food and chew it again. They simply can't spend their whole life on their feet like a horse.
In Apple's case, there have been a couple of days in the last few weeks when she's been down and I've seen her struggle to get up. Generally I have to unclip her from her tether and after some awkward crawling she makes it to her feet. There's been no clear reason for it, she walks fine, eats eagerly, and makes good, clean milk with no sign of mastitis; she's got no fever, pees and poops regularly, and seems perfectly healthy. But Wednesday, quite suddenly, she just... couldn't get up. Could barely even bring herself to try. Bribery didn't budge her. Her temperature was normal, she would eat hay if it was in easy reach, and occasionally get up on her knees and flop somewhere new, but no amount of cajoling, bribery, leverage, or whipping (yes, I even involved the riding crop in my desperation) could get her on her feet.
I called Daddy; he had some suggestions but nothing panned out. I got hold of the vet, and he told me to go shopping for dewormer, aspirin, and a magnet in case she ate some metal. So basically: he had no idea what was going on. He told me he was sorry, he'd seen her before and he knew I really liked my cow. It was pretty clear he didn't think she would get better. At this point she had rolled to her side and stretched out, that dreaded prone position cattlemen know and hate. If a cow stays stretched out on its side for very long, her digestive system doesn't work right; she will bloat as her guts fill up with gas, and ultimately, possibly within hours, irreversible complications will set in and she will die.
So I used a 2x4 to wedge under her pelvis and at least get her rolled onto her belly again. Tea helped me, bless her, by bringing things to wedge behind her once I got her lifted up, until she had a small log pile preventing her from rolling back onto her side. I put hay in front of her so she could nibble it, then left for the local feed supply stores.
First stop was Runnings, where I got a huge tub of bovine aspirin and a bolus gun for force feeding them into her. They also had magnets so I bought a package of those, but they didn't have a wormer that was safe for lactating dairy cattle. I walked out $50 poorer and with the sinking feeling that we weren't actually saving the cow. I talked with Daddy on the way to Tractor Supply and he agreed. I had sent him a cell phone picture of the cow prone on the barn floor and he was pretty sure I'd be trying to butcher the cow tomorrow. But I went to Tractor Supply, found a wormer that was safe for lactating dairy cattle, and left--once again $50 poorer, still quite convinced that none of this would help, but feeling that we had to do everything in our power.
Back home, Apple was still lying on her belly; she'd eaten all the hay she could reach. I shoved the bolus gun in her mouth three times, once to get the magnet down her throat and twice with giant aspirin pills. I applied the wormer as directed. Then I went in the house for dinner, hoping that if the pills reduced her pain I could get her up in half an hour or so. It was then that my dear father called, having also been told of the crisis, and said that he could come up and help me get her on her feet. This was very encouraging news; maybe with two adults to help her she could get up. The clock was ticking; because cattle are so large, they can get circulatory problems in their legs from lying down too long, which can lead to muscle damage and further reduce the likelihood of recovery. In addition, she really needs to be milked every 12 hours at minimum, and when she's laying down her udder is not accessible to me or her calf; if she went too long without being milked she would get mastitis. Best case that just means the kids and I can't drink her milk for a few days; worst case, if we were unable to get her up and milk her for too long, she could die of sepsis. So when my father arrived I clipped a lead to her halter, he got behind her, and with him pushing up on her pelvis and me pulling on her head, we finally got her hind legs under her so she was kneeling. We scrambled a bit and ultimately got on both sides of her shoulders and lifted and shoved until her front feet were under her and there she was, standing!
First thing I took her for a little walk. She wasn't limping, just slow and stiff--hardly surprising. As she nibbled on some grass I realized that her right hip was significantly swollen: probably the source of her pain. I palpated it thoroughly and found no wounds and no evidence of broken bones, but it was definitely much larger than her left hip. I took her to the round hay bale and let her start eating, then brought the calf and clipped him to her so he could nurse. He had her empty in a matter of minutes. After she ate I took her back to the barn; she drank long and thirstily, and I tied her with some more hay and let her be.
How did she hurt herself? My best guess is the calf. She's a very small Jersey, maybe a thousand pounds but I doubt it; and she's got scrawny haunches, like many Jerseys. He, on the other hand, is half Angus and built like it, with muscles on his muscles and a sturdy bone structure--not to mention an eager appetite. OK, he's a greedy pig, and when the milk stops before he's full his head-butts sound like a sucker punch to her gut. I really wished he wouldn't do that but all calves do, so I guess I figured it was ok. I think it must be that he caught her leg at a wrong angle at some point and pushed her hip the wrong way, straining the tendons of the ball joint. So the first thing to do was put a stop to that nonsense; from now on he only goes on her when I can supervise directly, and the moment he starts impatiently assaulting her I take him away.
Thursday morning she was down, but in better spirits, and when I dipped the scoop into her favorite alfalfa pellets her whole being lit up like a Christmas tree. She started crawling eagerly across the barn floor toward me. By setting the scoop of pellets out of reach, then getting behind her and pushing while she strained forward, I managed to hoist her hindquarters up; then I ran to grab the scoop and lift it so she would have to get up to eat. It worked! The bad news was, where she ended up getting up was outside in the muddy barnyard. The exact same thing happened that evening at milking time, meaning she needed a bath before I could milk... so I worked out a new plan. Friday morning and evening I got her up by this method without her crawling outdoors, just inside the barn on her dry bedding. And this morning and afternoon, Saturday, all it took was a little maneuvering to keep the pellets just out of reach as she reached for them, and she got to her feet unassisted!
Saturday evening found her feeling pretty close to herself. She still needed to be incentivized to stand, but she did it without having the reward dangled tantalizingly in front of her. She's also getting really difficult to medicate--she fights that bolus gun with all her might. I told her if she stands up before I give her the aspirin, she won't have to take it. Maybe she'll think that over tonight and decide to start taking some responsibility for her life. We can only hope.
There are things we still don't know for sure. Most notably, we don't know if the injury is something that will keep flaring up and making it hard for her to stand on her own, or something that with time will completely heal, leaving her an active, spunky young cow once again. But there is one thing I know quite certainly: my father saved my cow's life. I just didn't have the physical strength to get her on her feet alone, and she simply was not responding to any of the motivations I could provide; I am certain that, if he hadn't been able to come help me that first night, she would never have gotten up. Her muscles would have stiffened further, her udder would have become infected from not being milked, and Thursday would have been spent figuring out how to cut up a dead cow so we could at least have beef and bone broth. It would have been terrible.
One benefit of her current condition is that I need to hang around near her and supervise while she eats from her round bale and the calf nurses, so I've been spending extra time on chores; I've been using the time to dig out some of the worst areas of mud in the barn yard and replace them with gravel that my neighbor has from his landscape business and doesn't need. So we're making major progress on turning the muddy ruts and slicks into dry, firm gravel paths. My father helped me make significant progress on that today, in addition to all the other great stuff he does.
In closing, if you're in the camp of people who think you might want a dairy cow someday: I'm not trying to discourage you! But at the same time it's really good to know what you're getting into. And if at all possible, try to make sure you have at least two strapping adults available in case of emergency. You have to be willing to jam an 18 inch plastic tube to the back of the animal's mouth several times a day, even though she won't like it, and sometimes nature's way doesn't work out that great and needs to be amended (as in the case of the big strong bull calf beating up his poor scrawny mother). I love my cow and I'm so glad I have her; and having put in the blood, sweat and tears to save her is a really empowering feeling. That said, I could never have done it alone. I guess, lonely though I might be, I can't really say I'm homesteading solo; the guest appearances often make all the difference between success and failure. It's humbling, but in a warm and happy way. Thank you, dad.
Now a cow is quite different from most other livestock when it comes to going down. When a goat goes down, for the most part, if she isn't super weak or in terrible pain, you can put her back on her feet yourself. If a horse is in enough pain that it can't get up, it probably isn't going to lie down in the first place. (Not to say that horses never get "cast," or stuck lying down, in their stalls--but believe me, if it happens, there is reason to panic! Also, don't panic. I digress.) But a cow is uniquely large and also uniquely required by nature to lie down. They really have to lie down, at least a couple of times every day, or they don't digest their food correctly. Lying down puts pressure on their rumen, letting them burp up their food and chew it again. They simply can't spend their whole life on their feet like a horse.
In Apple's case, there have been a couple of days in the last few weeks when she's been down and I've seen her struggle to get up. Generally I have to unclip her from her tether and after some awkward crawling she makes it to her feet. There's been no clear reason for it, she walks fine, eats eagerly, and makes good, clean milk with no sign of mastitis; she's got no fever, pees and poops regularly, and seems perfectly healthy. But Wednesday, quite suddenly, she just... couldn't get up. Could barely even bring herself to try. Bribery didn't budge her. Her temperature was normal, she would eat hay if it was in easy reach, and occasionally get up on her knees and flop somewhere new, but no amount of cajoling, bribery, leverage, or whipping (yes, I even involved the riding crop in my desperation) could get her on her feet.
I called Daddy; he had some suggestions but nothing panned out. I got hold of the vet, and he told me to go shopping for dewormer, aspirin, and a magnet in case she ate some metal. So basically: he had no idea what was going on. He told me he was sorry, he'd seen her before and he knew I really liked my cow. It was pretty clear he didn't think she would get better. At this point she had rolled to her side and stretched out, that dreaded prone position cattlemen know and hate. If a cow stays stretched out on its side for very long, her digestive system doesn't work right; she will bloat as her guts fill up with gas, and ultimately, possibly within hours, irreversible complications will set in and she will die.
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| The picture that convinced my husband that the cow was doomed |
So I used a 2x4 to wedge under her pelvis and at least get her rolled onto her belly again. Tea helped me, bless her, by bringing things to wedge behind her once I got her lifted up, until she had a small log pile preventing her from rolling back onto her side. I put hay in front of her so she could nibble it, then left for the local feed supply stores.
First stop was Runnings, where I got a huge tub of bovine aspirin and a bolus gun for force feeding them into her. They also had magnets so I bought a package of those, but they didn't have a wormer that was safe for lactating dairy cattle. I walked out $50 poorer and with the sinking feeling that we weren't actually saving the cow. I talked with Daddy on the way to Tractor Supply and he agreed. I had sent him a cell phone picture of the cow prone on the barn floor and he was pretty sure I'd be trying to butcher the cow tomorrow. But I went to Tractor Supply, found a wormer that was safe for lactating dairy cattle, and left--once again $50 poorer, still quite convinced that none of this would help, but feeling that we had to do everything in our power.
 |
| loading a bolus gun |
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| Open wide |
Back home, Apple was still lying on her belly; she'd eaten all the hay she could reach. I shoved the bolus gun in her mouth three times, once to get the magnet down her throat and twice with giant aspirin pills. I applied the wormer as directed. Then I went in the house for dinner, hoping that if the pills reduced her pain I could get her up in half an hour or so. It was then that my dear father called, having also been told of the crisis, and said that he could come up and help me get her on her feet. This was very encouraging news; maybe with two adults to help her she could get up. The clock was ticking; because cattle are so large, they can get circulatory problems in their legs from lying down too long, which can lead to muscle damage and further reduce the likelihood of recovery. In addition, she really needs to be milked every 12 hours at minimum, and when she's laying down her udder is not accessible to me or her calf; if she went too long without being milked she would get mastitis. Best case that just means the kids and I can't drink her milk for a few days; worst case, if we were unable to get her up and milk her for too long, she could die of sepsis. So when my father arrived I clipped a lead to her halter, he got behind her, and with him pushing up on her pelvis and me pulling on her head, we finally got her hind legs under her so she was kneeling. We scrambled a bit and ultimately got on both sides of her shoulders and lifted and shoved until her front feet were under her and there she was, standing!
First thing I took her for a little walk. She wasn't limping, just slow and stiff--hardly surprising. As she nibbled on some grass I realized that her right hip was significantly swollen: probably the source of her pain. I palpated it thoroughly and found no wounds and no evidence of broken bones, but it was definitely much larger than her left hip. I took her to the round hay bale and let her start eating, then brought the calf and clipped him to her so he could nurse. He had her empty in a matter of minutes. After she ate I took her back to the barn; she drank long and thirstily, and I tied her with some more hay and let her be.
How did she hurt herself? My best guess is the calf. She's a very small Jersey, maybe a thousand pounds but I doubt it; and she's got scrawny haunches, like many Jerseys. He, on the other hand, is half Angus and built like it, with muscles on his muscles and a sturdy bone structure--not to mention an eager appetite. OK, he's a greedy pig, and when the milk stops before he's full his head-butts sound like a sucker punch to her gut. I really wished he wouldn't do that but all calves do, so I guess I figured it was ok. I think it must be that he caught her leg at a wrong angle at some point and pushed her hip the wrong way, straining the tendons of the ball joint. So the first thing to do was put a stop to that nonsense; from now on he only goes on her when I can supervise directly, and the moment he starts impatiently assaulting her I take him away.
Thursday morning she was down, but in better spirits, and when I dipped the scoop into her favorite alfalfa pellets her whole being lit up like a Christmas tree. She started crawling eagerly across the barn floor toward me. By setting the scoop of pellets out of reach, then getting behind her and pushing while she strained forward, I managed to hoist her hindquarters up; then I ran to grab the scoop and lift it so she would have to get up to eat. It worked! The bad news was, where she ended up getting up was outside in the muddy barnyard. The exact same thing happened that evening at milking time, meaning she needed a bath before I could milk... so I worked out a new plan. Friday morning and evening I got her up by this method without her crawling outdoors, just inside the barn on her dry bedding. And this morning and afternoon, Saturday, all it took was a little maneuvering to keep the pellets just out of reach as she reached for them, and she got to her feet unassisted!
 |
| Enjoying her evening routine |
Saturday evening found her feeling pretty close to herself. She still needed to be incentivized to stand, but she did it without having the reward dangled tantalizingly in front of her. She's also getting really difficult to medicate--she fights that bolus gun with all her might. I told her if she stands up before I give her the aspirin, she won't have to take it. Maybe she'll think that over tonight and decide to start taking some responsibility for her life. We can only hope.
There are things we still don't know for sure. Most notably, we don't know if the injury is something that will keep flaring up and making it hard for her to stand on her own, or something that with time will completely heal, leaving her an active, spunky young cow once again. But there is one thing I know quite certainly: my father saved my cow's life. I just didn't have the physical strength to get her on her feet alone, and she simply was not responding to any of the motivations I could provide; I am certain that, if he hadn't been able to come help me that first night, she would never have gotten up. Her muscles would have stiffened further, her udder would have become infected from not being milked, and Thursday would have been spent figuring out how to cut up a dead cow so we could at least have beef and bone broth. It would have been terrible.
One benefit of her current condition is that I need to hang around near her and supervise while she eats from her round bale and the calf nurses, so I've been spending extra time on chores; I've been using the time to dig out some of the worst areas of mud in the barn yard and replace them with gravel that my neighbor has from his landscape business and doesn't need. So we're making major progress on turning the muddy ruts and slicks into dry, firm gravel paths. My father helped me make significant progress on that today, in addition to all the other great stuff he does.
In closing, if you're in the camp of people who think you might want a dairy cow someday: I'm not trying to discourage you! But at the same time it's really good to know what you're getting into. And if at all possible, try to make sure you have at least two strapping adults available in case of emergency. You have to be willing to jam an 18 inch plastic tube to the back of the animal's mouth several times a day, even though she won't like it, and sometimes nature's way doesn't work out that great and needs to be amended (as in the case of the big strong bull calf beating up his poor scrawny mother). I love my cow and I'm so glad I have her; and having put in the blood, sweat and tears to save her is a really empowering feeling. That said, I could never have done it alone. I guess, lonely though I might be, I can't really say I'm homesteading solo; the guest appearances often make all the difference between success and failure. It's humbling, but in a warm and happy way. Thank you, dad.
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