In his book “Outliers” Malcolm Gladwell popularizes the “10,000 hour rule.” Claiming that the key to achieving world-class expertise in any skill, is, to a large extent, a matter of practicing the correct way, for a total of around 10,000 hours.
Prior to breaking my arm a couple of years ago I’d figured I was getting close to that 10,000 hour mark in preg-checking cows. I was so confident in my skills that I thought if preg-checking cows were an Olympic sport that I could be in the running for a Gold medal.
My recovery from that broken arm, and the related nerve damage has been slower than I would have liked. But I feel like it’s finally pretty good again. While I may no longer be in the running for a gold medal, I think I could still put in an Olympic qualifying effort. I recently went through a beef herd of 750, and made it through them by early afternoon.
But then I’m reminded that preg checking is a team sport, and not an individual event. Without the right set up, and the right crew pushing cows to me that time slows down significantly.
For example: earlier this week during our bitter cold snap, I had a little group of 39 to do. Two hours later and I was nearly done.
Part of the problem was the crew. It was led by an individual they call “Dammit Mike.” I’d been working with these people for years before I learned that Dammit wasn’t actually his name. He’s a hard worker, and he’s lovable, he’s just prone to doing things that make people say “Dammit Mike!” But I like having him around, because without him around when I hear “Dammit Mike” it’s referring to me.
It was at about cow number 30 when David (the individual running the chute). Took a break to mix some more vaccine. Dammit Mike slid over to run the controls, and promptly missed catching the first cow.
The second part of the problem that day was the setup. The cows didn’t like feeding down the alley, so they were very agitated by all the whooping and hollering by the time they finally got to the chute. Then when leaving the chute, rather than an open pen to exit into, this chute dumped them into a corner, where they then had to turn and figure out where to go.
The cow Dammit Mike missed was agitated coming through, she then hit this corner and turned around, running right down the side of the chute Dammit Mike and David were standing on. She then proceeded to chase them fully around the pickup parked next to the chute three times before getting bored with the pursuit and leaving. From my side of the chute all I could do was laugh, and wonder out loud why they didn’t just jump in the back of the truck to get away from her. I could here David muttering repeatedly “Dammit Mike” but I wasn’t sure if he was referring to Dammit Mike for missing the cow, or to me for laughing at him.
Then a couple of cows later, we’d let one out, and caught the next one. I was already in the chute with my arm inside this cow. When I saw that the previous cow had hit the corner and was coming down the other side of the chute this time. Dammit Mike had now been relegated to this side of the chute, away from David. But this side of the chute had no pickup to play “ring-around the-rosie” around.
Dammit Mike took a quick look around and decided that the safest place was inside the palpation cage with me. The next thing I know Dammit Mike is shoving me forward, with my arm still inside the cow, and wedging his rather large frame in behind me. Then closing the door behind us.
Between the cow, me, and Dammit Mike behind me, we’re wedged in here too tight to even open the door back up to get out, even after the other angry cow has wandered off. We’re stuck, the cow caught in the head lock, me with my arm up the back end of the cow, and Dammit Mike behind me embracing me in a giant bear hug.
Now it’s David’s turn to laugh. I just wish he’d had the decency to let us out of the chute, before rolling on the ground, and clutching his sides while gasping for air in between bouts of laughter. When he’s finally able to talk again he asks Dammit Mike: “Well, is the Vet pregnant? You look like you’re preg-checking him, or maybe even breeding him.”
All I know, is that if I do come up pregnant, I know what I’m naming the baby. It will be “Dammit Mike!”