3.30am. Yuk. Disgusting few hours’ sleep as usual, worrying whether I’ll miss the alarm. Bowl of porridge, cup of tea, assessment of how warm/cold it is outside, dressed and off to the clinic.
At the clinic meet Kath/Neil/Megs/Kim - whoever also got the short straw. Scanners, cables, probes, paint, recording sheets, gumboots and overalls loaded; truck loads of lube. Pile into one car, cold, not enough clothing, off through the dark with occasional muttered conversation. Radio Hauraki. Dark, dark, dark; dairy sheds lit up and hovering like alien craft in the blackness.
Pulling into the tanker track; black river of cows flowing into the collecting yard harbour. 50 or 60 bale alien craft looming over us all round and bright and shiny. Alien in the distance, sheathed in black spacesuit, a million black legs passing in front of 2 dull yellow lights. Kill the engine. ‘Imagine doing this every day all season.’ Every time the same incredulous comments. ‘1200 cows. Cups on at 4.30am. These guys deserve a medal.’
Unfold out of the car. Cold. Regret bad assessment of warm/cold outside. Scanner and gear and lube hauled out and set up. Inspect platform setup. Average but ok. Keen cows already in the bale - they know something’s up. Find boss and go through paperwork -mating dates, AB/bull dates, ageing, marking system, who’s doing what. ‘Just a wee bit slower than normal milking speed please.’ Curses from cups on.
Major requirement - which radio station? Hauraki at suitable volume gives small financial discount - at least until 6am when the jocks wake up and the inane wittering starts. Option gladly accepted by discerning client. Yard filling up; platform up and running; radio volume tickled up; we’re off.
Slowly into it, but after the first dozen or so we warm out of our lethargy - mental and physical. Suss the system (this morning it’s red dot empty; blue dot late; blue line bull; rest AB); catch the beat, crank up to milking speed. As the speed lifts the conversation picks up: scandals shared, gossip gathered. At each new shed we are like the first cows in a new break, seeking and devouring, hungry for tall tales and what’s new.
Probe, dip, paint, check, probe, dip, etc etc. Towards the end of the first herd and it’s still dark. Time goes quickly when you can’t see the yard. Warmer now. Conversation deteriorates into sordid tales and innuendo as we move onto the second herd. Most topics are fair game, although a few keep recycling. Must be 6am, the rock jocks have started their inane prattle, and the music becomes secondary. Second herd on? - halfway already? The sun comes up with mocking slowness and dashes faint hopes - never seen so many cows in a yard. Bugger. Oh well, don’t look up just keep at it.
End of the second herd - lames and then penicillins last. The home stretch. The good people of the world are getting up, and we’ve nearly finished. Feels almost good. Memories of early starts and cold mountains: at once uplifting and sad. The last round - hoses on, senses dulled by the severe noise, filling the shed. Finished, dismantle gear, wash up, noise and bustle everywhere. Pack car and retreat to peace and quiet of the office. Count up numbers of yes, no, lates, etc. Reasonable result. ‘How does that compare with everyone else?’ ‘Good.’ ‘Breakfast?’ ‘Don’t mind if we do!’
8.30am drifting back to the clinic. More coffee, check mail, email. Swap stories with the others. Another herd at 10am. Herringbone this time, backpack scanners. Post lunchtime we’re ready for a break before the afternoon milking session. One heads home, one picks up a new partner. Process starts again. By evening back in the clinic plugging in the numbers and checking the results. Same again tomorrow. And the next day. That was summer, you just missed it.
But it does end. Every day is another step towards the finish and nearer the next cycle. Lives measured by our progress through these seasonal tasks. Scanning cows is sometimes boring but an integral part of the whole process, and satisfying when you’re getting good results with herds that you’ve had a lot of involvement with.
On a more practical setting, scanning cows during the slow summer months allows us to support enough staff to provide comprehensive emergency cover when it’s needed in spring and early summer. The reason you can get a good vet out at the drop of a hat when your best cow’s in trouble in the spring is because of all that scanning providing income during the off season.
If you didn’t use your vet to scan your cows but still demand and get a first class emergency service the rest of the year, bury that wee guilty feeling this season and give them a whirl. You’ll be surprised, and who knows, you may be the difference between a viable rural vet service whenever you want one, and one cobbled together and rivaling the run down rural human health sector.
