OL' BRINDLE COW

by Bill Viers

Ol' snag horn brindle cow didn't show for feedin' this mornin'.

That old timer is in about the last of her calving years.

So this is a sign of missin' mornin' breakfast it appears,

to go ridin' out to see where that ol' heifer is a hidin'.

The ground had not quite thawed out from the winter freeze,

and snow still hung to the north side of gullies and draws.

The little bay acted like this ride could be put on pause,

until the sun climbed high up above the tallest pine trees.

Balky as the little bay appeared, she was a cow pony through and through.

She crossed the frozen turf, plantin' her feet gingerly on the rough sod,

lookin' to the distance for the best terrain to trod.

Givin' her rein speeded up the chore of finishin' what we set to do.

Ol' brindle would be up a draw as far from the home place as she could go.

Probably holed up in a hollowed out patch of mahogany brush.

A place where it was dry and out of the wet ground and snow slush.

She'd hole up where she was away from where the wind would blow.

Up ahead there, I caught a movement that was bigger than a jack rabbit.

Yeah, there they were, three, four, five winter starved coyotes.

Their fur was still thick and unkempt, showin' they had not shed their winter coats.

They circled and enclosed on a patch of brush, displayin' their huntin' habit.

One coyote entered the brush on one side and another from the opposite side.

There was a beller and a snort and out flew a wigglin' gray body in a somersault.

That critter's surprise and yelpin' showed it had met up with a mighty assault.

That snagged horn hook of old brindle had torn a gash in that pup's hide.

A crashing of winter brittle brush, confirmed that old brindle was on the fight.

No mangy coyote was going to get anywhere near her new born calf.

She declared a one cow war on the scavengerin' gray riff-raff.

runnin' them clear over the hill ki-yiin' and out of sight.

The little bay and I watched with a bit of wry humor,

at a momma cow who knew how to protect her new born.

We knew that the coyotes would normally not tried to meet her scorn,

had they had a decent meal this mornin' and yestermorn.

That fiesty ol' gal came trottin'back down the hill to her hidin' place,

when of a sudden she looked at the little bay and me.

Like a couple of greenhorns, we were too near, and things started gettin' sticky,

'cause 'ol brindle snorted and headed for us at a ground eating pace.

Squealin' like a starved pig gettin' a bucket full of slop,

the little bay reared and shied, almost losin' her footin'.

Turnin' tail, she almost left me in vacant air as she started scootin'.

The brindle gained on us every step we surged toward the hill top.

Then a blat and a bawl brought her in a big "U" turn back toward her young 'un,

shaking her head, lookin' back over her shoulder at us with jaundiced eye.

With a stretched bag full of fresh milk for the new one to try,

her motherin' instincts drew her quickly back to her new addition.

Now you've been there if you have been around any kind of cow outfit.

There's always that one old cow who'll calve at the far end of nowhere.

She'll be independent, a little ornery and ready to stir up the atmosphere,

providin' any critter or two legged tries to get closer than she will permit.

Ol' brindle is no different than any real carin' mother.

She'd rather fight to the end to protect her little one.

Her entire make up at calvin' time is for her young un's preservation.

So best give her a little distance and let her be a lovin' mother and protector.

Copyright © 1998 William Viers. All rights reserved.

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Cattle fed, evenin' chores done,

time to check tomorrow's weather.

Radio and newspaper say a lot of sun,

but, I bet tomorrow's a wader.

Horses bunched up with tails to the west,

cattle restless and millin', not touchin' their feed.

Cats are washin' their ears, that's the real test.

Want to pick the winner, be my guest.

Morning comes early around here,

with breakfast served after feedin'.

"durn it" what's that pitter pat I hear?

That roof is taking a gullywash beatin'.

Knew last night the weatherman would be wrong,

and all the critters would be right.

I can just hear the weatherman's song,

when he comes up with excuses tonight.

Them weathermen are like the government,

they can be wrong fifty per cent of the time,

and still keep their employment.

Wish it were that easy for me to make a dime.

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