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Feeding Out Hay
Early autumn, a dry year, the last of the brittle grass chewed down to dirt, the cows starving. After school Dad drops me off at a distant paddock to feed out some hay, and drives away. The cows are milling tight around the gate, making a racket, complaining about the wait. I climb the gate and push my way through them, talking all the while: it’ll be alright ya old thing, get out of my way, let me through and you’ll get the hay sooner, move over will ya, shove over, garn, move. My hand on a rump, a neck, pushing through. We meet each other’s eyes. We know each other: I’d fed them as calves, or milked them, or both.
I make my way through the cows to the old Ford tractor, haul myself up with both arms and start it. The forklift with its long steel prongs for holding big round bales is attached at the back. The cows had followed me real close and encircle me and the machine, making it nearly impossible to lift the forklift from the ground let alone to move the tractor. I inch the hydraulics up to raise the forklift so it won’t drag on the ground, then slowly ease my foot off the clutch and tap the throttle with my hand enough to get the tractor just moving. The cows stay tight close. I edge the tractor forwards through the mob, calling all the way: out of my way you dumb things, move on there, let me through, I’m getting the hay, you know what I’m doing you stupid cows, we do this every day. I’m worried they’re going to trip on the forklift prongs. I stand so I can hold down clutch and brake at the same time, and hit the throttle up hard with my hand to make the engine roar but it doesn’t frighten the cows. It’s achingly slow and nervewracking.
Finally I get in front of the muddle of cows. I open up the throttle and race away across the rough dry ground. I have to get into the little wired-in hay enclosure in the middle of the paddock well before the cows or they’ll get in and eat their fill and there won’t be enough for them to get by on until the grass grows again.
I get to the enclosure first, only the heifers anywhere near, kicking up their legs as they run. The rest of the mob don’t have the energy. I knock the tractor out of gear, leap off, and yank at the heavy wire loop to open the ‘gap’, the temporary gate cobbled together from barbed-wire and iron droppers. I keep an eye on the approaching cows as I strain until the gap springs open, then I fling it out of the way, swing up onto the tractor, stand on the clutch and wrench the machine into gear, open the throttle and charge into the enclosure. Then, tractor in neutral, I jump off, pick up the gap and drag it back to remake the fence by tugging the gap as hard as I can with one hand while hitching the loop to the post with the other.
I just beat them. The young cows stop running and skid at the fence before they hit it, bellowing and snorting and defeated. I breathe hard, puffed, get back on the Ford and draw breath, hugging the steering wheel like a pillow, waiting for my heart to stop thumping. The cows all at the gate now, making a racket, threatening the flimsy gap. I put the machine in gear and turn it around in the little enclosure, reverse in under the nearest bale and pick it up with the forklift. When I raise forklift and bale high, it destabilises the tractor. It shakes and rocks unnervingly. When it settles, I roll back to the gap.
Getting out is easier. I’m talking to the cows still, looking them in the eye now, making sure we’re all on the same job, following the same plot. I park dead in front of the gap and jump down, talking all the time, opening the gap, dropping it nonchalantly in the hope that they won’t notice it’s open. I sidle back up onto the tractor, still talking, still making eye contact, engage the gears and loosen the clutch so it crawls out, no throttle necessary, but I have to talk real loud all the same to be heard over the cacophony of tractor and the incessant roaring of the cows. Once I’m out, the cows in front begin to pull at the bale, milling around and reaching up and grabbing mouthfuls, blocking the gap with their own bodies – too hungry to think it through – and I stop talking and stop looking them in the eye and slide down the back of the tractor and scamper under the forklift and the bale to pick up the gap and pull it shut.
Back on the tractor again I creep the machine to the front of the mob, more of the cows behind now, following the hay, and when I get an opening I take it and thunder across the paddock, the bale bouncing up and down high behind me, and the cows charging close behind it, bellowing and kicking up their legs and making a trail of dust. I need to get as far away as I can from the hay enclosure so the cows stay well behind, eating from the bale, oblivious. Then I can sneak back and load up the next bale without the drama. The cows are close though, when I stop. They skid in around the bale, colliding with each other. It’s dangerous dropping the forklift with them so near, but less dangerous than lowering it while moving, displacing the weight on the tractor while it’s bouncing over the bumpy ground.
I tap the hydraulics, tap, tap, a little at a time, lowering the bale, but the cows are so close I’m worried the prongs will scratch them. I edge the tractor forward a little but they stay tight, pulling at the hay, snatching mouthfuls, tearing hunks of hay from the bale, pushing each other to get in closer, ravenous.
Eventually I get the bale down low enough to the ground to tip the forklift. The bale will slide off while I move forward. But it doesn’t move, it doesn’t slide away like it should. I jiggle the hydraulics but it still doesn’t move. Suddenly the old friesian closest to the forklift sets off a terrific noise, enough to drown out the roaring mob, the chomping and stomping and snorting and shoving, the thump of the engine. She rolls her head and glares at me with crazy eyes. White froth bubbles around her mouth and nose. I freeze. I stop jiggling the hydraulics and she quietens, but something’s wrong. I put the tractor in neutral and crawl up onto the back wheel then onto the cross bar of the forklift, balancing precariously, trying to get a closer look. I don’t want to fall into the mob. They’re single-minded about eating now, they’d probably eat me. I can make out the old friesian’s front legs amongst the forest of red and black and yellow legs around the bottom of the bale. I see a forklift prong right through one, beneath her knee, and out the other side. There's no blood, no writhing, a clean stabbing. I look at her face but she doesn’t look at me, she’s just concentrating on eating, she’s stuck right in front of the mob, best seat at the table, none of the other cows are able to push her away.
I shake. I bellow. I wail. Shit oh shit oh shit. I've stabbed a cow right through the leg! Right through! How do I get her unstabbed? I’d already tried backing off and that didn’t work, just made it worse, just made her wail. At least she's quiet now. I don’t know what to do. I start to cry, to sob with terror and guilt and powerlessness all rolled up inside me. I feel like I’ll vomit. My legs are quivering. I clamber back to the seat on the tractor. The cows are all eating, the noise has died down, the edge has worn off. But the old friesian is stabbed through and stuck on the forklift.
It's more than a mile home, by the shortest route, across the paddocks. Up the hill to the dairy, down the other side, across the road and down the track to home. The nearest road has hardly any traffic; there’s no hope of hitching a lift. My boots are useless for walking in, let alone running, but I have no choice. I head towards the dairy, tears streaming. What if she dies? What if we have to get the vet? We hardly ever get the vet – it takes forever for the vet to come and they cost a fortune. We’d pull halfborn calves from their mothers using a block and tackle before we’d call a vet. What if it was my fault we have to get the vet? What if the old friesian dies? What if we have to shoot her?
Half way up the hill I begin to make out detail around the dairy. In the shade I see the dark blue outline of Dad’s ute. My heart leaps. I quicken my pace. I’m so close. It’s such a relief. My feet knock around in the boots, hurting heels then toes, heels then toes, but I run faster. I ignore the stitch that has been sharpening in my side. I yell out Dad! Dad! I know it’s too far for him to hear. It hurts my chest to yell and takes too much breath, but I keep yelling, keep running. Then I see him walk out of the dairy. I wave my arms, yelling, running. He doesn’t hear, doesn’t see. Opens the door, gets in the ute, drives off. I crumple. Tears pour down my cheeks. Snot drips into my mouth. I ache everywhere. I can’t keep going. I can’t. I tried.
Across the empty distance I hear the old friesian bellow. I stabbed her! Shit! I stabbed her! I wipe my face with my sleeve, tell myself to grow up, keep on.
I'm no runner. I'm exhausted when I get to the dairy. But home is in sight, with Dad’s ute parked out front. I stop in the shade and drink water from the tap, put my head under it and let it run around my neck, wash my face, wet my hair, my shirt. I kick off my boots and take off barefoot down the familiar dirt track, a boot in each hand, hopping and skipping when I land on sharp stones. The downhill run is easier. Not far now. I pick my way across the prickly bitumen road with its gravel borders and tiptoe over the long bars of the cattle pit, then tear down the home stretch. I fly through the garden gate and then in the side door, pulling it closed behind me so I don’t let in any flies, and limp into the kitchen.
Mum is at the sink peeling potatoes for tea. Dad is sitting at the table drinking coffee, reading the paper. They turn to look at me, waiting for me to speak. I bend down, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath. I spill out half sentences: cow stabbed, stuck to the prong of the forklift, right through her leg, didn’t mean to, really sorry, the old friesian that always gets mastitis, you know, the one that kicks, we don’t have to get the vet do we, I didn’t mean to, stabbed, stuck.
Dad says to Mum: can you get her a drink? Mum fills a glass from the tap, mutters: it’s no job for a girl. She keeps peeling. Dad drinks coffee, turns the page. I’m going to burst. I protest, all coiled up with anxiety and guilt: come on, come on, we’ve got to do something. She’s stabbed! Have a drink, he says, while I finish my coffee, then we’ll go. He’s reading the paper and talking to me like I’d been talking to the cows: it’ll be all right little one, don’t worry, drink the water, have a biscuit, a bit of a rest, it's a long run for you, didn’t know you could run so far, teasing me, trying to make me laugh, relax, uncoil. I feel sick. It’s not right to sit there, having a drink, reading the paper, peeling potatoes, while the old friesian is pronged to the forklift, unable to move.
Eventually Dad finishes the coffee, closes the paper, stands up, tucks his shirt into his trousers. We pull on boots and go out to the car, drive back around the road to the paddock. From the gate we can see the old friesian, still stuck to the forklift. Most of the cows had moved away, the hay all gone. She just stands there, patiently. I open the gate and Dad drives through and then I close it again. The cows run at us, thinking we are going to get another bale of hay, some more feed. We slow down and they surround us, escorting us to the tractor. We get out of the car, doors slamming behind. Dad starts talking to the old cow: it’ll be all right ya silly old freesh, what did you do that for, upsetting poor little Jane? She won’t feed you any more if you do stupid things like this, and on he goes, up close to her now and patting her on the rump and making her take all the blame. She lets out a slow sad bellow.
Dad motions to me to get on the tractor and start it up. Then he leans his back against the friesian’s front shoulder, stretches his arm along her neck and strokes her ear, curls his body against her leg, straddling the prong that pierced her, and nods to me to tilt the forklift just a little, stop, tilt, move forward, slow, slow. I'm shaking, my foot jelly on the clutch, my hand rubber on the throttle, but I tilt the forklift and edge forward. Dad leans back against the cow, looking real casual as though he's leaning on a wall waiting for something to happen. He's talking nonsense to the cow and looking at me and the cow's looking at me and not making a sound, not even moving. And I edge the tractor forward and the prong begins to slide out of her leg smooth and clean as a skewer out of a cake that's done. And then the prong is out and the cow jumps away and Dad jumps the other way to stop himself from falling. She's as delighted to be freed as I am to see her hobble away. My stomach lurches; I feel like I'm going to spew up but I don’t.
I switch off the tractor and swing to the ground and hug Dad. And after a bit he lets me go. He says I should feed out a couple more bales, and he’ll come back and pick me up, unless I want to run home, now that everyone knows I can run that far. And at last I laugh, and I'm ok, and I haul myself onto the tractor and go back to feeding out hay.
© Sandra Meredith, written late March 2007, typed early Feb 09, for Charlie’s 50th birthday.
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