RIP Ruth Jones

Almost 4 months to the day, Ruth Jones was born. Ruth Jones (AKA Ruthie, Jonsie, Jones Bones, Gurly and Beauty Queen) was a heifer jersey cow. I never thought a cow would win my heart until little Ruthie came into my life. And now, I cannot imagine my life without a cow or without Ruth Jones.

Just before Thanksgiving, Rose, Ruth’s mama joined our farm. Her previous owners said she was pregnant, due to calf in late February. However, each vet that came to check on Rose, would stand outside the barn gate, hand propped up on the cedar fence post as they observed Rose for a few minutes before shaking their head saying, “That cow ain’t pregnant.”

Last time I checked, in order to tell if a cow is pregnant, you have to stick your hand up her rectum and feel the uterus to detect the size, texture and location - this is the fool proof way to determine if a cow is pregnant. Now, I understand why a vet would be averse to such an exam, but they led us Rookie Year Homesteaders to believe Rose wasn’t pregnant.

Before we acquired Rose, I spent months searching for a cow that met our needs - A2A2 genetics, 3-4 years old, un-vaxed, unmedicated, no antibiotics, quality milk producer…These are tough parameters to meet in today’s modern world - cows like this are few and far between. We live in a time where antibiotics and vaccines are standard. Nobody questions it.

In the community I live in, a lot of people have cows. And, almost every single one of them does the standard protocol for their herd…As soon as the calf is done nursing, vax them, give them penicillin and send them out on BLM (federally owned land) land until winter.

That’s not the kind of cow we wanted. Nor is that anyway to raise cattle (more on this in the future including how it increases risk of wild fire).

After months of searching, I found Rose on a ranch in Oklahoma. When Rosie got to us, she was rail thin and patches of hair along her spine were missing. She was 7 months pregnant yet appeared highly malnourished. How did she have a baby in there?

Rose was still in milk when we got her. We were to dry her off around Christmas so she could prepare for birth. But, every vet that came had the same response when they saw Rose, “That cow ain’t pregnant.”

So, we continued to milk Rose.

At the end of January, Rose’s milk started to get thick and had a weird scent to it. It was clumpy and stringy. We thought Rose might have mastitis. But, she didn’t show any other symptoms of this condition. Each afternoon, Jen and I would go down to the barn and put hot cloths on Rosie’s udders - we’d massage them and apply cayenne pepper ointment to breakup any potential mastitis clumps.

On the second day in February, Jen and I walked down to the barn to go about our regular mastitis routine. However, on this day, we didn’t get to the hot towels and cayenne pepper. Rose didn’t have mastitis, she was pregnant. And, as we walked into the barn, Ruth Jones laid on the ground, born only seconds-to-minutes ago, looking like a pile of soggy laundry.

Jen and I thought she was dead. But, as Jonsie laid there on the ground, her eyes piercing up at us, her body cold and quivering, we reached down and put our hands on her only to realize she was alive.

I scooped Jones up out of the cool, crisp Beltane air and carried her to the house. We swaddled her delicate body in blankets, surrounded her with hot water bottles and administered intravenous fluids. Slowly, Ruthie started to gain strength. For the first few days she couldn’t suckle nor could she stand on her own. We kept her in a cattle feed trough in our bedroom feeding her every 2 hours. When Ruth Jones was strong enough, we started taking her out on walks up the snow covered mountainside outside our door.

For 10 days, we nursed Ruth Jones back to life before she was strong enough to go down to the barn with her mama.

The thing is, Ruth Jones was never a thriving calf. Since the day she was born she never mooed - this is very rare for a calf - they should moo soon after they’re born. And, from brith, Ruthie had frequent, scanty urination. On top of that, her umbilicus never fully closed. Everyday we’d apply either iodine solution or pinion sap salve and/or a chile pepper garlic salve to her umbilicus. We’d even apply natural wound care sprays. And, I gave her homeopathic remedies intended to heal open wounds that suppurate (discharge). But, nothing worked.

Eventually, failure of this wound to close caused infection to spread throughout her body and, as a result, Ruthie developed calf diphtheria. This was a horrific condition to watch little Ruthie struggle with - she became more lethargic, ate less and less each day and strings of saliva hung from the sides of her mouth as the diphtheria slowly and gradually caused her throat to close.

But, Jen and I continued to show up for Ruthie in big ways every day. I gave every natural remedy and homeopathic remedy that I knew of to treat this condition. And, while I’m the last person on the face of the earth to champion antibiotics, we got to a point where if Ruth Jones was going to continue living, this was our only shot.

Even the strongest antibiotics failed Ruth Jones.

During the last month of Ruthie’s life, I’d go down to the barn more frequently to check on her. I’d sit beside her on the hay covered ground and she’d rest her delicate head on my lap - I’d sing to her, talk to her and pray for her.

Something in me always knew Ruth Jones wouldn’t grow up to be a big cow. But, my heart always held onto the hope that she’d grow out of my fears and into a thriving heifer cow. I’d always ask her, Are you gettin’ to be a big cow Ruth Jones?!? While I knew the answer, I hoped my words would inspire her to continue on and gain confidence to thrive and grow strong and stubborn like her mama.

That last month, every time I left the barn yard, I’d return to the house sobbing. I knew Ruthie was on her way out and it would only be a matter of days before she made her transition.

Just after Memorial Day, Jen and I went down to the barn for our morning milking. Even during the last days of her life, Ruth Jones would slowly meander around the barnyard chasing patches of sunlight as an attempt to heal and warm her failing body. But, on this day, Ruthie didn’t get up. She laid on the barn floor with her head on the ground breathing slowly and shallowly like one does before death steals their last breath.

I went into the barn and gave Ruth Jones a kiss on her stumpy little head and went out to milk Rosie. About halfway through milking, we started to hear mooing. I thought the neighbors cow had gotten loose. But no, it was Ruth Jones.

Ruth Jones mooed Jen and I into the barn. One after the other Ruth Jones belted out moos like she’d never done before. These were primal, big cow moos. We held Ruth Jones as she mooed and shook the life out of her body. Minutes later, Ruth Jones transitioned to the other side.

Jen and I laid on the barn floor holding Ruth wailing our hearts out. For several minutes, Ruth’s body was still warm, still had life in it. We tried to close her eyes as you would when a human passes. But, her’s wouldn’t close.

Today, most farmers don’t handle their cattle. We had countless vets and cattlemen come to our farm to check on Ruth Jones. We wanted a professional, experienced opinion - we wanted them to tell us they’d seen this kind of thing before and that Ruth Jones would pull through and be just fine.

And, they did tell us this. But, I never believed them. And, I quickly realized that they truly thought Ruth Jones would pull through because they never handled their cattle. They never sat with their herd, they didn’t spend time with them and they sure didn’t let their calf rest their head on their lap.

I now understand that as a parent, you can tell if something’s off with your kid simply by spending time with them and observing them. The mother instinct let’s you know when something’s off or wrong or bothering them or pulling at their heart.

Even though I knew deep down in my bones that Ruth Jones would never become a big cow, I still loved her the very same and I’d do it all over again. Because the love I felt for little Ruthie, well, there’s no replacement for that motherly connection.

Rest in peace Ruth Jones.