Branding Day

The calf bellows.

The smoke from burning hair blows into my face and clothes.

That stench will stay in my nose for at least two days, maybe longer.

I work as quickly as I can, knowing stress multiplies with every moment on the calf table.

The bander stretches the thick green rubber band wide while I slip the sack through the band.

Then my fingers probe the calf’s abdomen, guiding unseen testes through the bander before I let it squeeze.

It is branding day.

As four of us work like a well-oiled machine, each with a job to do at a specific time and in a specific order, I think about why we do this to calves.

U.S. consumers and laws demand it.

Almost all beef sells by the pound.

Testosterone enhances muscle growth and more muscle means more money to the producer, but testosterone makes that muscle tough.

Americans prefer tender beef.

They are willing to pay more for it.

Cattle producers reduce the testosterone by castrating baby bulls so the T-bones and ribeyes on the grill for Memorial Day, Father’s Day, Independence Day and every other bar-b-que can be cut with a fork.

Europeans eat bulls.

Americans eat steers.

I’m not criticizing the American Way.

I don’t own a sharp steak knife and I don’t need one.

But when a calf is laying horizontal on a calf table with a rope around its leg so it can’t kick me into tomorrow as a band him, I think about these things.

Branding is required, too.

In Montana, essentially I’m not allowed to sell cattle that don’t carry my registered permanent mark of ownership.

Back East laws are different, but all western states require animals to be branded.

While each calf is laying sideways on the calf table, one of us gives it an antibacterial babyhood vaccine and pierces its ear with an ear tag, just as so many human babies endure.

The vaccine protects the calves from diseases in the soil and water while the ear tag helps me quickly confirm which calf pairs with which cow.

The best part of branding day happens before we use the calf table, when we saddle up to gather the cows and calves.

Yearlings graze with them.

This is the day I’ll think about my future herd and choose replacement heifers.

If the drought doesn’t force me to sell all of my cattle, I want heifers that will raise healthy calves for many years.

As I ride, I evaluate conformation and disposition. I dream about tall grass and clear springs.

The pasture is not huge.

About five years ago, I had it subdivided so I could rotate my cattle and sheep.

As I ride out, I’m glad I spent that money.

New grass blends with last year’s, growing in the best conditions I can offer during the horrible conditions of long-term drought.

From my saddle, I spot a few wildflowers.

I smile at Nature’s colors.

The fat and sassy yearlings don’t see a need to leave that lush, green grass.

My horse pins his ears and goes to work.

All I have to do is sink into the saddle and enjoy the ride.

I see my daughter, Abby, and my partner, Erik, in the distance, riding the same way.

I hope they feel the same joy in this moment on the range.

Because once we sort the calves from the cows, we won’t have time for feelings. Only our precision and speed will minimize the calves’ pain.

As the smoke drifts away from the calf table, Erik and I tip the calf upright and release the squeeze.

The calf bounds out, stands straight and bawls for his mama, no worse for wear.