She went down in the parlor on Saturday night and had to be hauled to the sick pen in a sling. She spent the next three days there, and was euthanized this morning. For the first two days it looked like she might pull through, her attitude was good and her eye bright.
I don't know when she went downhill for good, but when I walked by the sick pen this morning she was stretched flat out on the ground. At first I thought she was dead, but then I heard a strange noise and saw her taking shallow, ragged breaths.
I left to do my work, and when I got back she was gone and loaded on the dairy's flatbed. The manager asked the vet if "it was done". The vet said, "It is. We loaded her onto your truck for you."
Her hip bones stuck up through the tarp, and a corner of hoof was visible on the side. When I walked into the vet clinic, her collar hung on the metal rail of the stanchion. The numbers will be replaced and it will be put on another cow, possibly a heifer.
I know she was just one of many, but for some reason her death really struck a chord. Perhaps it's because I felt like she was one of "my cows", perhaps it's because I saw her so close to death. Regardless, I fell like she should be remembered in some way other than a necropsy report.
Cow 316 was a good cow, a high producing cow, and once ate bluegrass straw for science.
She's here on the far right, wearing her number band.
