Perfectly Normal Conversations

Last week, I looked at Tom and asked a perfectly reasonable question: “Should we start shopping for semen?”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t pause. He didn’t even seem to think there was anything remotely unusual about what I’d just said. Because there wasn’t.

We need to start thinking about our next round of AI breeding, which means looking at bulls, studying genetics, comparing EPDs, figuring out which sires complement which females, and eventually ordering semen.

Shopping for semen.

Perfectly normal. Well, maybe just on the ranch?

And that got me thinking. How many things do I say now that, not all that long ago, would have required a LOT more context?

Take calving season.

It’s not unusual for Tom and me to stand in a pasture staring intently at a cow before one of us says something like: “Her backside is looking really floppy.”

Again, perfectly normal. And, if you’re talking about a cow, not even remotely insulting. It’s actually valuable information.

As a cow gets closer to calving, things start to loosen up back there. Apparently I’ve reached a point in my life where not only do I notice these things, but I casually discuss them with my husband.

Raising cattle involves a surprising amount of looking at backsides. And udders. And, for that matter, the color and consistency of poop.

Things that would generally be considered impolite topics of conversation become perfectly acceptable when you’re trying to figure out whether someone is about to have a calf, whether that calf has been nursing, or whether something isn’t quite right.

We also talk to the cattle themselves.

Or at least I do. A lot.

“Where’s your baby?”

This is a legitimate question.

When a cow comes wandering up without her calf, I would very much like her to explain where she left it.

She never does.

I also regularly ask them to come closer so I can boop their noses, which serves absolutely no ranching purpose whatsoever.

I’m beginning to think the cattle aren’t taking these conversations as seriously as I am.

Communication gets considerably less polite when we’re actually working them.

Working cattle has its own language, most of which consists of very short sentences yelled at a fairly high volume.

“Use your arms!”

“Get big!”

And one of Tom’s personal favorites:

“Use your brain!”

Tom has long maintained that nothing said while working cattle should be taken personally.

I suspect this rule exists primarily because Tom is the one yelling, “USE YOUR BRAIN!”

In his defense, there’s usually a 1,200-pound animal headed toward the wrong gate, someone standing in exactly the wrong place, and a perfectly good plan we made five minutes earlier falling apart before our eyes.

There isn’t really time for:

“Melissa, would you mind repositioning yourself and perhaps using a little more body language to encourage that cow to change direction?”

It’s:

“GET BIG!”

So I get big.

I use my arms.

I try to use my brain.

And eventually, hopefully, the cow goes where she’s supposed to go.

Our text messages aren’t much better. There are no lengthy explanations when everyone already understands the assignment.

“Bring the castration bands.”

“Check the heifers.”

“Net is in the side-by-side. Catch the ducks.”

No greeting.

No context.

No follow-up questions.

The castration bands are located.

The heifers are checked.

The ducks are apprehended.

Around here, nobody thinks twice about any of it. Everyone knows exactly what we’re talking about.

Things get a little more interesting when someone outside the ranch gets included in the conversation.

My uncle was planning to come visit recently but ended up not being able to make it. I told him that was probably a good decision because the night he’d planned to come happened to be the night Tom was going to castrate the piglets.

Except that’s not exactly how I said it.

What I actually texted was:

“Tom has decided tonight is the night to take the piglets’ manhood.”

I sent that sentence without a second thought.

No explanation. No acknowledgment that this might be an unusual way to spend an evening.

Just a friendly heads-up that perhaps he’d picked a good night not to visit.

Perfectly normal. Well, maybe just on the ranch?

The funny thing is, none of this sounds particularly unusual to me.

I suppose that’s also why I continue expecting the cattle to answer me.

I’ll be driving through the pasture when a cow plants herself directly in my path.

I stop.

She stares at me.

I stare at her.

Finally, I roll down the window and channel Garth from Wayne’s World.

“Scuse me. I’d like to get by now.”

Nothing.

“Scuse me.”

Still nothing.

Sometimes I’ll even throw in a “please,” as though manners are what’s standing between me and a 1,200-pound cow who has absolutely no intention of moving.

Eventually, she’ll move.

Or I’ll find another way around her.

Either way, we’ll both go about our day as if nothing unusual happened.

Because around here, nothing did.

It was a perfectly normal conversation.