Dirty Laundry

Like many people who work outside, I have two sets of clothes: Ranch Clothes and Town Clothes.

I save my Town Clothes for times when ranch-caused dirt and grease stains, holes or tattered sleeves might distract people from our conversation.

My Town Clothes are relatively comfortable, but they require a lot of rules – don’t spill, don’t step in the mud -- because pretty comes before practical.

Ranch Clothes have one rule – protect my skin from whatever comes at it.

The other day, as I peeled stinky, calf-manure-stained jeans from my legs, I realized that the best days come with Ranch Clothes that are too filthy to wear another day.

I had been helping friends brand their calves.

My job was to push three calves up the chute at a time, using my knees, hips and force of will. Then a friend followed me with another three calves.

The practical-not-pretty, ranch-clothed crew chatted happily as they worked as a well-oiled machine.

The next day, I caught up on tagging newborns in my pasture.

The adrenaline rush of holding a bull calf down, stretching a rubber band and placing it just right while an agitated cow sniffs the calf’s nose and bellows her distress made yet another great day.

By the time I tagged newborns, I had already spent the morning worrying about a calf that was just not thriving.

This calf’s first-time mama had her easily, but the calf was staggering around, a bit cold and not interested in nursing.

I hauled her to the kitchen and plopped her on the dog bed for a few hours.

When I took her back to the corral, her mama licked her and cooed but kicked when the calf dully attempted to nurse.

I locked the cow in the head-catch and showed the calf where to find breakfast.

The calf wasn’t interested.

I was very interested in keeping this calf alive so I milked out the cow and tubed the calf.

Twelve hours later, the calf still wouldn’t nurse. When I pushed the issue, the cow kicked again, not aggressively, but she wouldn’t tolerate the calf butting her udder.

When I milked out the cow, two of her quarters were hard.

Mastitis made the poor mama sore.

I tubed the calf again and doctored the mama. I had some extra colostrum in the freezer so that went down the calf’s throat, too.

The next morning, the lethargic calf could hardly stand. Its hind knuckles were folding under.

This was not how the newborn plan is supposed to work.

Newborns are supposed to get stronger, not develop numerous, worse problems.

I milked the mama and tubed the calf again, then I hunted for a selenium supplement. I suspected the calf needed a shot pretty fast or her muscles would quit.

By the time I made it back to the corral with the selenium, the calf was bouncing around the corral, running to the mama and head-butting her udder.

Covered in various bovine fluids and corral dirt, I grinned.

All the best days are marked by filthy clothes, but not all filthy clothes make the best days.

Last Sunday, I tackled a water leak in the cellar of my old house.

After an hour, I climbed out from under the porch soaked by cracks in the pipes, my hands aching from turning stiff valves, and plastered in clay mud from belly-crawling in narrow, dark places draped with spider webs.

The day seemed better after the leaks were fixed and a hot shower.

As I felt the hot water cascading over my goosebumps, I knew the worst day in filthy Ranch Clothes is still better than the best day in clean Town Clothes.