Gift From a Lusty Holstein

Gift From a Lusty Holstein

Spring came on quite early
Along the Musselshell that year
We all thought that a good thing
Considerin’ our early-calvin’ fear

A neighbor bull’d gotten plumb romantic
Early June the summer before
And came a'courtin' on our heifers
Twenty-six he seemed to adore

He busted through two fences
Driven by his passionate trance
Weren't a one o'them fair ladies
Stood even the slightest chance

His scrawny, bony genetic code
Their calves were doomed to carry
Didn't please the front office much
Considerin’ his origins not beef but dairy

Who knew what calf to expect
From a beefy Hereford mama
Who’d up an’ been preggered by
A lovestruck Holstein ‘stead’a Brahma

Becoming branded as racist
Was not the ranch’s desire
But no one had ever counted on
The setback of this quagmire

We'd hoped to expand the breed stock
Of the cow calf operation
But that weren't happenin' now
Not outta’ this generation!

Worst case was what they planned
To make the best of this raw deal
They'd wait four months or so
Then sell them calves off as veal

Well four months came an’ went
Twenty-six calves still all a'growin’
Next we knowed it was more’n a year
But they showed no signs of slowin’

Not only did they promise to have
Mighty fine beef muscle and form
But not a one had been colicky
We was rethinkin’ this break from norm

The beefin’ pleased those doin’ the books
Good health kept the vet bill at bay
If these crossbreds kept on a’growin’
Heck, they just might get to stay

We still had to castrate and doctor
There was still taggin', an’ brandin’ to do
But since they was natcherly polled
That was one less task in the queue

Actually they were kinda purty
Sorta’ remindin’ me of my ol’ paint
We expected them to look weird
But bad lookin’ cattle they ain’t

We sold off the steers at auction
Keepin’ two uncut pulls
The heifers we kept separated
To be bred with our Hereford bulls

We’ve bred back selective
Refining the herd a mite
Some years have passed now with
No name for our new breed in sight

I’d kinda' like to know
That anonymous bull’s name
We could use it as the moniker
Of our cattle for which he’s to blame

Maybe we’d call them Heresteins
Or Holefords is what I thought
Either would reward ‘ol lover boy
For the fences he bravely fought

We win regular at the Billings Fair
Thanks to our wanderin’ lover
An’ one thing I’ve learned for sure
You cain’t judge a bull by his cover

By, Rik Goodell

© 2021