Will’s World: Certain farm jobs are not to be sniffed at
© Richard Stanton It can drag a bit on a livestock farm at this time of year, can’t it.
It’s only February, but you’ve already done months of feeding and bedding, you’re spending half your waking hours moving muck around, you’re sick to your aching bones of dark mornings and evenings, and every surface you touch is damp.
Thank goodness the snowdrops have appeared to give us all hope that spring’s on the horizon.
See also: How stress-free disbudding can benefit calf units
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Of all the winter routine jobs, though, there’s one that I dislike the most: disbudding and castrating calves (insert joke here about me talking bollocks yet again).
Height of stupidity
It isn’t so much the deed itself, more the fact that it plays absolute havoc with my lower back, and even a stout belt, copper bracelet, well-tucked-in thermal vest and a steady stream of ibuprofen don’t seem to help.
I’ve therefore come to the obvious conclusion that the calves themselves need to be approximately 20cm taller by the necessary age so that I don’t have to bend so much while working.
If the nation’s cattle breeders could get to work on that as soon as possible, I would greatly appreciate it.
We buy ours in, you see. All dairy bred and half of them as wild as tigers and fully up for a wrestling match to get them into the crush.
There are standard lines that my old man has trotted out for decades now every time we’ve done this job.
As I fasten the first one in, he says: “Sure you don’t want me to do you as well, lad? Save you a lot of cost and trouble in the long run.”
At 44, and with four kids and a vasectomy behind me, the good ship Trouble has already well and truly sailed.
So, as always, I politely decline while appreciating the offer, and the tradition, nonetheless. (He’s right though, it would’ve.)
Then, the final and regretful crunch as you force the Burdizzos together and feel a brief shiver of fraternal sympathy run up your spine.
It’s an utterly grim task, but it must be done, of course.
I sometimes reflect on what we show of the industry to the wider world, though. This not being one of the more glamorous jobs, it isn’t usually one that the farming influencers feature on Instagram or YouTube.
I can understand it. Who’d have the patience or energy to deal with the inevitable avalanche of comments comparing you to the great monsters of history? Certainly not me.
Ranch dressing
A few years back I remember watching a particular TV show with Jamie Oliver on a cattle ranch in Montana. What is it with Americans where they can even make castrating cattle look cool?
It was all lariats and Stetsons, chaps and spurs, suntans and lantern jaws, azure skies and stunning scenery.
Then afterwards they all had monstrously big steaks cooked on an open fire, and a bucket of cold beers between them. That’s living, isn’t it?
Meanwhile in Wales, I’m looking like I slept under a bridge last night. I’ve got wild hair, a week’s worth of grey stubble, ripped neoprene leggings and a jacket that a tramp would be ashamed to be seen in.
Still, off I go for the school run. My youngest daughter races out of the classroom as fast as she can and flings herself into my arms, nearly knocking me over with her enthusiasm.
As I carry her away, she sniffs once, and says loudly: “Daddy, you stink.”
I bet that never happened to John Wayne.