Can we call ourselves farmers yet?

So, turns out that bulls are freaking dangerous beasties to have around. Furthermore, it turns out that he-calves turn into bulls unless something is done to prevent it. And that is where this comes in:


(note also the comically large calf bottles in the background)

That, my friends, is an elastrator. How it works is, you put this teeny little rubber band (about the size of a cheerio) on it and stretch it open, then you put that around the calf's poor little fuzzy scrotum, and then you remove the tool and leave the band. It cuts off circulation to everything, and then in a couple weeks the whole shebang just drops off. No blood, no mess, and apparently minimal pain. So that's what we did on Monday.


Calves waiting for us. Poor bastards had no idea what was coming.

We were pretty trepidatious, for obvious reasons, but it actually went pretty smoothly. Once Noah had them down on the ground, they just laid quietly and looked around while I did the dirty work, then they just got up and ambled away with no hard feelings. The only hard part was (TMI ahead) finding the goods. The scrotum was pretty obvious, but apparently young calves keep the *ahem* important bits safely tucked away upstairs during times of stress (such as being sat upon by Farmer Noah). I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that you haven't lived until you've spent some quality time rooting around a young calf's abdomen looking for testicles.


I know those gazes look reproachful, but that's just how they always look.


Jim helps give them a 'sorry-about-your-gonads' bottle.


Noah leaves the scene. If I weren't so lazy, I'd photoshop an explosion behind him.

Bonus Puppy Pictures:


The Amazing Flying Alfred. This is what you get whenever you call him (unless he's sniffing something).


D'awwww, puppy!