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‘You’re in the clear,” the vet announces.
I breathe a big sigh of relief. After all, these are always the most anticipated words of the farming year.
The days between the first TB test and the final results can be torture. Is that a lump on that cow? Could that cow be the one to bring you down? We have been there before. We had one in-calf heifer with a lump seven years ago, and an inexperienced young vet put her down. I don’t resent what he did, but when you find out later – after the heifer has been slaughtered – that there was actually no sign of TB in the carcase, you wonder: why is this test so ‘hit and miss’?
Once you’re locked up, you can’t buy or sell animals. You need to go through a series of further tests to take the ‘TB stigma’ away. This can take weeks, and during that time you obviously still need to keep your animals fed and content. It’s likely that you had been hoping to sell stock during this time. And yet, instead there they are – eating through your much-depleted fodder.
TB is widespread around us at the moment. I feel surrounded. I’m after getting two farmer ‘neighbour shame’ letters from the Department telling me they are locked up. I feel I should send them a mass card or a wreath to commiserate with their loss. At the same time, I’m patrolling the farm boundaries for any security breaches, like some US marshall on the southern border.
They say the badger isn’t the main suspect for passing on TB these days. Instead it is, very likely, other cattle. I know this sounds ridiculous, but could we get cattle to follow COVID-19 measures? Stay in your pods (herds), socialise only within the farm radius and wear masks at all times (although I’m not sure how that would look on a cow, in fairness).
My wife calls these measures ‘biosecurity’.
To my horror, literally the week after the test, I found a random bullock in with my heifers. How did he get in?
“Look at it like this,” she tells me. “When the floors are just cleaned, anyone who has been on the farm [generally you] is the greatest biosecurity risk to this house, so for our own health and safety, we leave anything that touches the farm behind in the hall or doorway so the house isn’t contaminated.”
I think if my wife had her way, me and the dog would be hosed down in a separate decontamination pod straight after the wellies come off, but leaving our gear by the back door will have to do her for now.
It’s all well and good if you only ever had to enforce your own biosecurity measures, but when your neighbour doesn’t, you can’t do much about it.
To my horror, literally the week after the test, I found a random bullock in with my heifers. How did he get in? No wires were broken and the fence was up to max power.
I immediately panicked. “Please don’t be from one of the neighbours that are locked up,” I prayed.
I rang around, and luckily enough, it wasn’t. I should have known which neighbour it was. I bet every farmer has one: the neighbour who doesn’t give a crap about anything, let alone biosecurity. Lord, give me strength. We got the bullock out eventually.
In other news, I still have a good few jobs to get done to get ready for the winter months, so I decided to take on an apprentice. This fella never set foot on a farm before. I’m taking it as a challenge to educate him in the art of milking and herding. He’s a good lad – he just wants to earn a few euro, get out of the house for a few hours and away from his computer.
Speaking of a crowd that I’d wish would stay in their house – how about those politicians?
It doesn’t seem fair that us farmers can’t spread slurry during the winter months when these lot turn up at your door and unleash a load of it on you.
There should be some kind of derogation for politicians: you’re only allowed to spread a certain amount of crap at certain times.
It’s only fair.
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