Ain’t No Cowgirl

When I was little, one of my favorite games of imagination was pretending to be Miss Emma from the Wild Wild West. I’d ride around on my stick horse, exploring the vast “frontier” of the backyard. Inspired by the trading posts of the Oregon Trail, I’d set up a little shop to sell my goods (plastic fruits and veggies, plus stuffed fish). I had the whole outfit - cute little hat and boots plus a vest with fringe. Miss Emma was a real cowgirl.

But Miss Emma eventually faded from memory. I didn’t want to be a cowgirl when I grew up. I liked dinosaurs, so being a paleontologist sounded nice. My parents also took me to SeaWorld a lot, which inspired me to one day become a dolphin trainer.

While I still love dinosaurs and sea creatures (animals of any kind, really), those dreams faded, too. I went to school for a Criminal Justice degree, fully intending on going into law enforcement when I graduated.

But God had other plans. I fell in love with the horses at a summer job I worked between semesters. I already had my own first horse at this point, so everything I put effort into solidified my love for horses. I’ve spent the last 10 years in the professional equine industry, only to have that change in the past few weeks (maybe more on that later). I still love horses, and, at the same time, I’ve felt the Lord draw me steadily toward this homesteading life.

I never went into it wanting cows. When my family moved from the suburbs to the country, the house came with a set of cows with their calves and bull. They were fine; I found them more tasty and personable. But I didn’t feel particularly drawn to them. They were more my dad’s thing; I helped when needed but didn’t make them a priority. Besides, they’d get me frustrated enough with their antics - busting through fences, not going where they were supposed to go, one stepping on her calf - that there were times I wanted to turn them all into burger and be done with the small cattle operation.

Thank the Lord He had other plans.

My sister and I had been dabbling with homesteading stuff - the usual hooks like chickens and sourdough. Then one day, an unexpected thought came to mind. I kinda wanted a dairy cow.

No way! Cows aren’t my thing. They’re messy, stubborn, and impersonal, right?

I held onto the thought before one day mentioning it offhand to my sister. Surely by Providence, we were both steering in the direction of cows. After some research, we settled on Dexters, finding their small size, dual purpose, and supposed good nature appealing. Not that we were gonna get one right away. But someday we’d start a herd.

Enter Craigslist. I can’t remember who found the ad between my sister and me, but there she was. A sweet little White Dexter heifer coming up on six months old. She was so small and fluffy and had the biggest eyes. I was hooked. I’m supposed to be the sensible one, but I decided to go for it. We pooled our money together and picked up little Cinnamon from down in Pueblo.

Cinnamon proved me wrong about cows. She was so sweet and personable and loved to have fun. We dressed her up in so many hats for holiday themed pictures. She went along with it alright, though I’m sure she would’ve rolled her eyes at her if she could.

Since cows are herd animals by nature, we quickly began the hunt for a friend. My sister found Pickles through another Craigslist ad (not that I recommend buying animals off Craigslist, but the Lord sure guided our steps with our cow purchases). Pickles was only a couple months older than Cinnamon. We visited her and knew right away she was the one. Her breeders managed to get a halter on her a couple days before we picked her up, and she practically led herself to the trailer when we went to bring her home.

Once the girls were two years old, we got them bred via frozen semen shipped in from Texas. We were very particular about the bull we wanted - non-chondro (dwarfism), A2/A2 (like the girls), and known for throwing calfs with small birthweights (preventing complications). Thanks to a rancher friend in the area, we were able to get them bred, eagerly anticipating their first calves next year. Cinnamon ended up losing the pregnancy pretty early, but thanks to Divine help and a great AI technician, we got her bred again.

Shortly after re-breeding Cinnamon, we found a bull that fit everything we were looking for. We weren’t planning on buying a bull that soon (funny how our plans often get changed), but he was too good to pass up. Chocolicious, aka Chonk, came home a few weeks before Christmas of 2024.

Waiting was for the calves hard. I felt very much like a helicopter cow mom. But Pickles gave birth on time and without complication. Kirby was a little carbon copy of her mom, a pretty red with mischievous eyes. You’ve heard about Nutmeg’s birth story, too.

I’ve learned a lot working with these cows. I knew practically nothing going in, but thankfully I have forgiving animals and phenomenal experts. They’ve been happy and healthy (with the exception of the occasional misadventure, often Kirby related).

My biggest mistake was not getting Kirby used to people and a halter right away. It made for some challenging episodes. But, since both Pickles and Cinnamon were halter trained, I was determined to halter break the little miscreant as soon as I could.

It took months. I tried chasing her down, but then she got too big. The gentle approach worked, spending a little time with her every day until she would approach me, until I could touch her neck, then scratch her head. I came close to slipping the rope halter on a few times, but close wasn’t good enough.

Then finally, just a few days ago, victory! I slipped the halter over her ears and nose, and she couldn’t shake it this time!

Kirby was not a happy camper. She ran around bawling and thrashing, shaking her head to get the offending halter off. She was quite the sight, eyes rolling around and tongue sticking out. I let her have her temper tantrum before grabbing onto the rope. That didn’t make her any happier. She pulled and thrashed around even more, but I managed to hang on.

We were making our own rodeo even until she pulled so hard she tipped herself over. Startled, she lay there for a moment before popping back up. She licked her lips and looked at me, and then the switch flipped. She gave in to the halter and followed me around a bit. Even more surprising, she let me pet her all over, more than ever before. She was like a different calf! Calm and content, even her eyes looked softer.

I paused to thank God for this final victory. And I’m thankful that He won me over to cows in much the same way, not pinning me down, but gently pursuing and encouraging, letting me pitch my fits but kindly waiting until I came back to my senses. I guess that extends to more than just cows. It’s how He’s guided my life.

Each day with my cows brings me joy. Yes, it’s hard and can even be frightening at times, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I can’t wait to see how the herd expands. And I may not be a “cowgirl,” but I sure fell in love with cows.