The Last of the Brand
Kate Miller is the Chief Operating Officer of a regional packer and a third-generation cow-calf producer. Questions, comments or critiques can be sent to kate@doublediamondbrand.com.
There are cattle that make waves through the industry. Through phenotype or genotype they earn their way into the record books and the halls of history. They are the record setters, the banner hangers. They create legends of the cattlemen that bred them and barons of the cattlemen that sold them. They are remembered for a legacy of greatness through performance or pedigree.
Our Melinda was certainly not one of them.
The origins of Melinda’s given name are unknown, but as one of few who have earned a name throughout the years she was designated as a favorite. On her best day her blue roan coat made her look shabby, even in the early summer when she was slick and full bellied without a calf at her side. She had an Eeyore like countenance, she just looked tired. Probably because she was. Her age was unknown, but a quick check into her mouth left little doubt that she was well beyond her first blush of youth.
While her physical form was a relic of ancient breeding, her temperament had earned her a place amongst the keepers. In a herd of cattle known for agility and a general disdain for barbed wire fences and cowboys with sorting sticks, Melinda was an outlier. She liked a good head scratch and would tolerate a good rub down if you stood vigil and protected her spot at the feed bunk. Again, the genesis of this relationship is unknown, and truly was likely discovered in the chute-- when out of the dozens that went through, she was the first not to blow snot in indignation of her current predicament.
We had made the decision that the bull calf she raised last year would be the last. We wouldn’t subject her to another breeding season or the stress of another winter with a calf at her side. When the cull truck came in the late spring, she stayed. She had earned her place among the keepers, after years of dedicated service and decent behavior, we felt owed her a peaceful retirement. Call us sentimental fools if you like, but there was one other detail that made Melinda special to us, a faded brand on her left hip, put there by the cowboy that came before us, our grandfather.
The ‘circle S’ on her side, a brand allegedly purchased, borrowed or commandeered (depending on the teller of the story) from the state vet and the tuberculosis branding and inspection era, dated her to 2005 or prior. The S brand was the last of its kind, she was the last survivor of his dynasty. The last his hand had touched. The last his hand had chosen to stay. She was the last living piece of his legacy that had been handed down to us.
On Monday afternoon, we filled the mineral feeders, and drove absentmindedly to the part of the farm chosen as my future homeplace, incidentally one of my late-grandfather’s favorite views of the property. A grove of old oak trees sits on top of the highest plateau, framing an unparalleled view of our ranch and the mountains that surround us. The sun was setting across a perfect fall day. On a cool breeze the melody of cicadas and the distant bawl of another momma looking for her baby occasionally broke the silence. Beneath one of these trees, we saw Melinda. Alone.
As we drove up to her, she made no move to stand. Alarmed we walked gently in hopes that she would flee the scene, but she merely looked up at us with tired eyes, and my heart fell. We weren’t prepared.
My brother attempted to hand feed her, but she showed little interest in water, mineral or a honeybun. She leaned into a poll scratching, which was encouraging momentarily. Until her eyes closed, and her head sunk against by brother’s shoulder. A lump formed in my throat. She was telling us in her own way that it was time.
My brother looked at me and said simply, “This is going to hurt.”
We sat with her like we were sitting with an old friend. I brushed the errant fly from her face and talked to her about all the adventures she had seen. I told her how grateful we were to have gotten to know her, and to have her with us for the years we did. Too soon it was time for the last goodbye. We both gathered what was left our resolve, and with my face pressed to hers I told her she had done so good, and I asked her to go easy for us momma, go easy one last time. And so she did.
A chapter in our history closed on that hill on that perfect fall afternoon. A piece of our history we will never get back was gone. We sat with her as the sunset and a full moon began to rise, my brother and I, in almost perfect silence. She was more than an asset long depreciated; she was more than a source of income; she was more than just another old cow. She was our last living memory. She was the last breathing shared bond. The last of his chosen cattle. And now she was gone.
I have a sense of certainty that she knew, as that day was the first cold morning of fall, that she had lived out the last of her summers. Whether she chose that spot for the view, can be debated, but a part of me wonders, as she lay down under the old oak tree, if she was led there by the spirit of the cowboy who had gone on before her. If he too walks the hallowed land we call home, and perhaps he was there opening the gate for her into the great herd up yonder.
We buried her under her chosen tree. Her ear tag now framed on the mantle. We will remember her, the last of the brand, the last of her kind, and we hope that wherever eternity takes us next, the cowboy and her will meet us at the fence someday.
