Pay Day

This is what I posted on Facebook on Wednesday last week during the charmingly mandatory lunch hour at Balog Auction - notice the fantastic country-fried steak and mashed potatoes and corn, blanketed in velvety white gravy:

"The steers arrived in Lethbridge last night during less than optimal driving conditions (thank you Kody, Marvin, Cliff, and Kurt who helped with loading!).

I had it slightly better and had a wonderful sleep (thank you, Balog Auction!)

And now it's almost here. This is what the Good Rancher has poured his time, energy, thought and resources into for the entire year. This is the result of no holidays, late nights and early mornings, falling asleep on the couch after 9 pm suppers, missing church and family occasions due to bad weather.

The GR regards his cow-calf operation as God's outfit, and he is just a steward.

He pays attention to the verse in Corinthians that states what is required of a steward is that he is found faithful.

The GR has been faithful to his calling.

Dear Lord, let it be a good sale ..."

*************************************

On the front of the GR's cattle liner

Due to adverse weather conditions the GR's cattle arrived later than we had hoped last Tuesday evening. The snow storm that blew up from nowhere continued to plague our wonderful drivers going home - at least one arrived back at 1 am, to a wife who had been praying for his safety. Another one, I found out later, got home at 2:00.

The thing about auction houses is that the animals usually go up for auction in the order in which they arrive. So I was prepared for a long wait on Wednesday afternoon, and for getting to the bank after it had closed. Oh well, I thought to myself.

**********

Mr. Balog himself ("Mr. Balog was my dad; call me Bob") opens the afternoon auction with the words, "Where's Mark?" Mark is also an extraordinary auctioneer, so if we have both Bob and Mark in the house, it should be a good sale.

Then Bob lays out the the first five in the sale order: there are three ranches from Saskatchewan, one from fairly close by, and the fifth one is the GR!

Mark takes the microphone and it begins. The steers and heifers look big and healthy and the bidding is fast and fierce. Prices are good. As a side note, animals are grouped by weight and often by colour, and the price being bid on is the price per pound. So if you look at line three you see that 13 black steers were in the ring; the average weight of each was 678 lbs; and the per-pound price settled on through the bidding process was "three-ninety-one-and-a-quarTÈRE," as Bob might say. 

(That's three dollars and 91 1/4 cents per pound, to be clear. And that's a really good price! I just want you to know that it's not the producers who are bumping beef prices in the stores ...🤪)

I usually sit on the top row of the gallery; but today the heat is cranked so high in retaliation for the outside frigid temperatures that I know I won't be able to take it for long. I slip into a chair on the back row at the side of the ring, and meet the Thorstensons from Saskatchewan. They are second on the roster. Big, beautiful, strong steers and healthy heifers. Bob himself takes the auction chair for them. There is quite a lot of jollity about James, a new MLA in Saskatchewan and their son. ("I knew Bob would say something!" beams Mrs. T.) They've been coming to Balog's since 2007, she tells me. "Bob always gets it done for us."

Georgine Westgard is sitting with the Thorstensons and they are clearly old pals. Jim and Georgine retired from farming in the Oyen area in 2018. Bob, of course, did the herd dispersal and then the farm auction sale. She is here for a visit today, and she includes me in the conversation. She roots for the Thorstensons throughout their sale; and when it comes time for the GR's cattle to enter the ring, she roots for him just as hard. "You have nothing to worry about - they look GREAT! Such good shape! Don't worry about the buyers pulling out one or two! Sometimes it's legit but sometimes they just want to keep people on their toes."

Mark takes over when it comes time to auction off the GR's herd. He has a pitch and rhythm that lulls you unless you're a buyer; then you better be paying close attention! He fights for quarter of a cent per pound, as does Bob - who, even as Mark auctions, is adding the colour commentary: "One iron! No implants or steroids! Home raised!" And the price goes up a quarter of a cent. Every quarter penny counts! 

I ask Georgine why she thought two steers are pulled out of a pack to be auctioned separately. "I'll go ask the buyer!" she declares. It seems they look "a little soggy." Sounds legit to me. Slightly lower price the second time around. I would choose crispy over soggy too; wouldn't you?

The GR's charolais-cross steers show up in the ring and they take my breath. A ring full of goldenness. I say to the two ladies, "When I see how gorgeous these steers are, I feel guilty for ever having evil thoughts about the GR not going on holiday or us not doing more as a couple ..."

They laugh knowingly. "We all feel that way. Don't feel bad. But it's a good day today, isn't it?!"

Suddenly, Georgine lets out a little yelp. A steer is down. The other steers run out of the ring through the exit door, and still he sits. 

The room falls silent.

I can hardly breathe.

The ring men move in to try to get him up, but Mister Balog takes control. "WAIT. Everybody wait. Give him a minute. Give him another minute ..."

And wouldn't you know it, that little steer gets himself up and walks out of his own volition. No limping. No foaming at the mouth. No hesitation. Completely calm.

Bob was standing right beside me by this point. "Just winded," he reassures me. "He'll be okay. We'll claim him on insurance so you don't have to worry. He'll be fine."

Bob Balog cares, not only about the animals but also about their people.

A small group of mixed colours arrives in the ring. The GR calls them "funny colours." I call them "Joseph's coat." They are so beautiful to me.

They sell just as well as everyone else. Take THAT, GR! 💖  

Across the ring from me are four people very dear to the GR's heart:  Justin, Kryston, Clay, and Oaklee, with whom the GR is completely smitten and calls Annie Oakley. The next generation in the family teaching their next generation the ins and outs of ranching life while they figure it out for themselves.

Kryston gives me a recipe for homemade yoghurt - easy and saves money. I have rarely seen someone so industrious. Oaklee has her mama's dimple at the corner of her mouth. Clay wants to be a rancher just like his dad. 

Justin bids for and buys some of the GR's steers. He has set up his own feedlot and is starting to build his herd. 

When the GR's sale is over, I deke into the kitchen to retrieve the doughnuts I had picked up from the Prairie Cottage Bake Shop in Brooks, on my way to Lethbridge, just as they were closing on Tuesday. This bakery makes doughnuts the old-fashioned way, and they taste the way most donut people dream of doughnuts tasting nowadays. I had called the bakeshop as I was preparing to leave for Lethbridge to see if I could reserve five or six dozen. 

The owner herself answered the phone. "I have a few left but nowhere near what you need ... Wait a minute - we're pretty caught up here. I could make up a small batch just for you!"

I arrived at 4:30. The doughnuts were done. "We just have to box them. You'll have to leave the boxes open so that they can cool!" I listened to the sweet sounds of a cappella hymns in the background as the two ladies finished up the order. 

After the GR's cattle are sold, doughnuts are passed around to everyone in the house who wants one, and every morsel is appreciated. "What's the occasion?" I am asked several times.

"The GR and I just made it to our tenth anniversary. Many people were pretty sure we wouldn't make it to five! So we wanted to celebrate with the folks who understand this way of life. Our people."

"Happy anniversary. Good sale."

(Prairie Cottage Bake Shop
Brooks, Alberta
403-501-0111

Just saying, in case you find yourself in Brooks!)

I go to the office to get the cheque and paperwork. As always, here is Maureen, Bob's sister and the person who runs the administration of this place. How she keeps everything straight, especially on sale day, I do not know.

How she keeps the song in her heart, I do know. There next to her is her daughter Shandi, back from maternity leave. "She's all I have," Maureen had told me quietly, numbly, when Shandi encountered difficulties in labour and delivery last year.

Now Shandi's beautiful boy is being cared for by his other grandma for the two days a week that Shandi works next to her mom like she always has. And Maureen's heart circle has expanded. 

I write my thankyou cards to the buyers who have purchased the GR's cattle. We are so grateful to them all and pray that the steers will thrive under them and that many people will be nourished through their efforts.

Goodbyes said, I make my way to the truck, start the engine to warm things up, and punch up the number on my phone.

He answers immediately.

"It's done. 

How much were you hoping to get from this sale?"

I say the exact same thing every time I go to a sale. I fear that he might think I'm crazy for asking, because what's done is done. But I fear even more that he might be disappointed, that despite all his hard work we have come up short.

He gives me his number. "Are we even close?"

I flash back to all the times we have gone through this, the times we have not met his number. How he immediately reassures me, despite his own disappointment, that all will be well. That God will take care of us.

I look down at the breakdown of the sale given to me from the auction house. I take a deep breath.

"Honey, we are not close. 

Honey, you remember the verse in Ephesians about '... Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think'? 

Honey. That's where we are ..."

Silence.

Even from four hours away I can feel the weight of the past two years start to roll off his shoulders. I hear him draw in a deep breath and slowly exhale.

"Thank You, dear God," he whispers into the phone.

"AND I can get to the bank in time before it closes! I had better leave now, though ..." I blink my way down town and pull myself together as I enter the bank's parking lot on my second attempt.

I go into the bank and - happy day! - there is not a line up, AND they are debuting a new BMO commercial. There is something about this guy that I just love. I think it's his inherent tongue-in-cheek joyfulness. I am so fortunate to get called to the teller's station where you sit down to do your banking, so I get to watch it a couple of times. 

The bank teller thinks this is hilarious. She's laughing harder than I am. Only, she's not laughing at the commercial ... 

I drive home. As I go through Taber I stop at Taco Time and get two taco salads and a burrito, to go. Beef, of course. And the large Mexifries, please.  After all, it's a very special occasion!

I battle through some fog and blowing snow, but nothing like the day before. As I pull into the driveway I see a text from the GR that he had sent at 5:30.

I just have to park on the driveway for a moment to gather my thoughts. Our calving season is supposed to start the last half of April! This calf is not premature. The mother is a cow, not a first calver. Seriously? The whole cycle has started again IMMEDIATELY without even a day's reprieve?! 

"Will you take me to them?" I ask the GR.

"What are you going to name her?" he asks me.

"There really is only one name for her." I reply. 

"PayDay!"

ScoutyLove

It must have been the temperature, the oppressive waves layering onto their overheated bodies and brains like the prickly winter blankets I took to our boarding school to combat the cool nights of the Nilgiri Hills in South India. I would lie as motionless as I could, hoping I wouldn't get jabbed by the vicious fibres; wondering if I was actually cold or just needed a hug and Mum to bring me my morning cup of tea in my green plastic mug in my own bed; wondering how long before morning broke the chill of the moon. 

Every day Musket, Phoebe Snow, Earl Grey, Carly Simon and Gunpowder have been lying motionless in the porch or under the green leafy Virginia creeper, panting slightly, hoping to avoid the spiky fingers of heat that find them no matter where they hide; stirring only for the occasional mouthful of water; wondering how long before evening breaks the grip of the sun.

Not Scout, though: Scout is a dog who was created for this often merciless life; whose greatest joy is charging out in the wake of The Good Rancher and his horse, tail wagging so vigorously that Jack-the-Cat-who-wishes-he-were-a-dog would go flying if he were following his idol too closely.

Scout is the late-arriving baby in this blended dog-family. In human terms, Musket is approaching 60, Phoebe and Grey are 53, Carly and Gunny are 40; and Scouty is an annoying 17 — energetic, friendly, loving, always wanting to be busy. Green balls, orange balls, and balls that light up when you throw them litter the inside of the house. Outside there are sticks of all sizes tucked away in strategic locations so that a quick game of Throw can break out no matter what part of the garden a person and her dog find themselves.

Scout was a country boy in a city; I was a city girl in the country. It was an improbable match made in heaven. It was love at first sight for me; for him, he had to mourn the loss of his city family and to establish trust with us, which took a couple of long days after he came to live with us. 

He declared that I was HIS, however, a few days later, during which time he had been fully instructed as to his status in the canine pecking order. 

That early morning he was cowering behind my bed as I dozed fitfully. Carly decided to jump on the bed, to let me know she wanted to go outside and it had to be with me.

Suddenly there was a flurry of black and white dog fur and Scouty launched himself onto my head, staking his claim. It was a brave, rash, foolhardy thing to have done. I lay there praying for no dog bites, for no blood to be spilled.

Fortunately — particularly for me — Carly saw the writing on the wall and backed off. From then on, with very few exceptions, Scout was accepted as part of the canine detachment, a promotion he never took for granted and a position he never took advantage of.

He was in his element, though, with the GR. He was a natural cow dog. A month after he came to live with us the GR needed to move cows from Ken Keibel's place to the pasture at Mile Corner. There was no one around except for me and my shadow to help him. "If you must bring him, make sure he stays in the side-by-side. I cannot have him spooking these cows."

The first hundred yards proceeded according to plan. And then a cow took exception to being herded.

Before you could yell, "Get out of the ditch!" little Scouty had leapt over the hood and planted himself firmly in front of the cow, locking his eyes with hers.

The standoff lasted perhaps 45 seconds before that grand old lady, mustering as much dignity as she could, turned around and rejoined her companions.

The dog was not even one year old, but he had discovered his raison d'être. It would be like hearing the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony (yes, the da-da-da-DUM one) and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were born to conduct an orchestra.

There was no turning back. From then on it was a given that when cows were being moved, Scout was at work.

People had told me about highly intelligent dogs; my experience was Musket down to Gunny — all five of them lovable and loyal and a couple of them a bit doltish, if the truth be told.

But then Scout arrived. He could understand almost everything that was said and certainly all that was going on. There was one time when the GR was bringing cows up the side road onto the 855. He was on horseback and a friend was on a quad. I came to guard the intersection, and found Scouty totally rattled by the quad. The GR was too. "Keep your dog in your side-by-side, and you and the quad stay out of the way!"

The cows had been rattled as well, their normal rhythm hopelessly disrupted. The three of us sat there helplessly, watching the GR and his horse work in vain to get them back into some order.

It was more than Scout could bear. He hopped out and paused, listening to my shrieks that he better get back in Right Now.

He turned toward me, locked eyes with me, dipped his head apologetically, and then ducked under the fence. He gave the cows a wide berth as he ran through the adjacent field in the opposite direction to which they were supposed to be going. He got back to the last one; and in less than five minutes everyone was under control and moving smoothly up the road. When he got up to the side-by-side he hopped in and lay on the floor at my feet, his usual spot, no big deal.

The GR was all smiles. "Where's my great dog?" he asked. I swear Scouty winked at me ...

Scout's life from day one has been about work. The purpose-driven life. If it's not a cattle-moving day, there's always something to do. It might be guarding miniature kittens along with his co-sentry Gunpowder ...

or performing quality control on the calves' milk replacer ... 

or checking the field in hopes of discovering the start of tender green shoots emerging ... 

or chaperoning. 

If there was nothing else going on, he'd be happy to challenge you to a ball game ... 

... regardless of who "you" are, and regardless of the weather! 

A new little game has emerged in the past few months: when I arrive home, the dogs accompany my truck from somewhere between the middle and home cattle gates to the house. 

But not Scout. Scout sits near where I will park, perfectly still, stick in position in front of the driver's door, waiting for me to disembark from the truck. Our eyes lock. 

"Hi, Love," I will always say, and pick up and throw the stick. Then I greet all the others.

The first time this happened, a couple of the others converged upon him, pinning him to the ground. The second time I said, "Oh ScoutyLove, they're going to come for you — you'd better go round to the front door and wait for me there." 

He went and collected the stick I had thrown and trotted off. Once I had greeted all the dogs and unloaded the truck and gone inside I glanced out of the front door. There he was, in the position. On the step was his stick. 

He can speak with just his eyes. The strong, silent type. If I couldn't find his ball, or the precise stick he was using at that particular moment, or if I wanted to know the whereabouts of the GR, I would just ask him. Then I would watch his eyes. He would first look at me and, without moving his head, then look in the direction of the object. If I couldn't locate the item in question, he would remain where he was, looking at me and looking in the direction. Sometimes I would get frustrated. He wouldn't change. He waits me out. I always find it. 

He has been right 100 per cent of the time. 

He has taught me to listen. 

He has taught me patience. 

He has taught me to love as much as I can, even those who would act unkindly toward me on occasion. 

He has taught me the value of loyalty. Of perseverence. Of playing the long game. 

He has taught me that while he is here, I am not alone. He will not leave me. 

The love of God conveyed by Dog. 

Halfway through June when the temperature in the house was 28° and the thermometer outside registered 39 and the blistering wind taunted us unceasingly, the dogs with their thick coats could bear it even less than I. Tempers frayed. 

It must have been the temperature, the oppressive waves layering onto their overheated bodies and brains. Two of the five started to gang up on Scout. Where he was, there they would go. Standing over him, threatening him, shoving him. Bullies on the playground. 

He never retaliated. He would lie there quietly, waiting for them to be done. He knew that if I was there I would call them off; if I was not, he could wait them out. And then he would carry on about his business — no hard feelings. All he knew is that he loved his brothers and sisters. The rest was up to them. 

Last Thursday I was in Brooks when I got the call. A friend had stopped for a visit. He had thrown a Scouty stick many times as he and the GR talked.

As he left, before he even reached the first cattle gate, the two dogs who had been acting up cornered my ScoutyLove and drove him toward the truck. It was going at only about 1 km / hour; but the way he struck it must have done damage to his heart. He cried out once. The GR, inside the house, recognised that cry and came running out. 

Scout stepped back and lurched toward the middle of the lawn. 

Our friend had felt the thud and immediately stopped and leapt out. He ran toward my ScoutyLove and held him as he took his last breath. 

It was all over in less than a minute. 

A day and a half later we buried him on top of the hill, our kind neighbour giving up his relaxed camping Saturday morning and making a special trip to dig his grave. 

It's a beautiful spot, overlooking the horse pasture, the corrals and the house and yard. 

I collected some of his sticks — sticks of all shapes and sizes, used for particular games — and placed them with him, along with the toy that had been sent with him when he first arrived at our house.

Our neighbour waited while the GR said his last goodbye and we went back down the hill; only then did he fill in the grave. He volunteered to fill it in by hand. I replied, "He's a dog; it's fine to use the backhoe. And thank you for even offering."

We checked later, and he had carefully made a mound of earth covered by grass on the top. 

I couldn't say anything of importance out loud that morning on that hill. We rarely talked with words. And I couldn't see his eyes. 

I will never see his eyes.

But  I think he knew. I think he knew that he was my best friend on the ranch. That we could talk about anything. That I loved him with my whole heart. 

Bye, Love. 

But Scouty, it's still sleep time! 

"Hey, Buddy"

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was his eye, half closed like he was almost asleep. He was lying on his side.

"Oh, my little Bartimaeus," I whispered; and for the first time, he never got up and trundled over to me.

The Good Rancher had been concerned about Bart when he went to feed Aiyo his late night bottle last night. Bart seemed ... listless. His breathing was fine, not the normal snuffly sounds we had become accustomed to. But he didn't come over for his regular belly scratch, and that was not the affectionate little fellow we were used to.

We had found out about Bart's love for a good belly scratch when The Kid showed up back in the fall.

The Kid had just finished up a job and was at a bit of a loose end. He chatted with the Good Rancher and they came to an understanding that there was some fencing to be done and open living quarters. The Kid would be welcome for three months to get a feel for the operation of the ranch, learn how to fence, and help out where he could.

The first afternoon he was on the job, we took him out to meet the bottle calves: Bull, Boots, and Bart.

We told him each of the calves' stories, and The Kid listened attentively. Then he walked over to  Blind Bartimaeus. I gave him a brief orientation as to Bart's odd way of latching on to the milk bottle nipple, then handed him the bottle.

The Kid cradled Bart's head between his leg and outside arm, and got the bottle in the vicinity of Bart's mouth.

"Hey, Buddy," he said gently. 

And wouldn't you know it — Bart settled right down and took the bottle, slurping its contents down with alacrity.

"I could feed them every day," The Kid volunteered. And from the next morning on, he was at the door three minutes before starting time, waiting for the bottles. He carried right on when 88 and Hey 19 were added to the little herd of orphans. But the one he loved was Bart.

I told The Kid to talk to Bart as much as he could: because of Bart's limited blurry vision, he would follow a voice he could recognise. So The Kid spoke with him, scratched his ears, gently rubbed his bloaty little sides and cared for him as well as I ever could have. Even on his day off, The Kid still showed up to feed the babies so that Bart would have consistency and no break in his routine.

And as he was approaching him, he always greeted him with, "Hey, Buddy!" 

The Kid quickly proved himself adept at driving the bale truck, fencing, helping to sort cattle and work gates and run stock up the alley. He would give 100% to any task that was assigned to him. He listened carefully, made a deliberate effort to get to know and help the neighbours, and was willing to do whatever it took to help the Good Rancher. He was a pleasure to have around and soon enough he and the GR had the conversation about staying on after Christmas. 

For his birthday, The Kid was presented with a bill of sale: for the sum of One Dollar plus Other Valuable Considerations, the transfer of ownership of Blind Bartimaeus, aka Bart, to The Kid was effected. 

The Kid took stewardship of his property seriously. He would pop over to see Bart at lunch time, and kept the GR apprised as to any health concerns. They would treat Bart when he seemed to be slumping and the little guy would rebound and be more loving and happy than ever. 

Then when he was home for Christmas The Kid sustained a serious accident to his eye.

His good eye. 

And we found out he had been born with a weak eye that had caused him some difficulties at times through his life. A few sports injuries had provided various degrees of head trauma. 

No wonder he understood Bart so well!

We promised that if he would just take good care of himself, we would take care of Bart for him till he could return. 

Plunging temperatures right at the time of little Aiyo's unexpected birth caused the tips of Bart's ears to freeze. Negotiations between the GR and his naggy spouse resulted in the two little animals being tenderly settled in the shop where they were fed, sheltered, exercised, and taken for walks and pen time outside on good days (Aiyo spends a good portion of each day with his mummy, who adores him but doesn't have enough sustenance for him).

Bart settled right in. He loved his grain and fresh water in the shop, and the mineral tubs and hay - not to mention other animals - in the pen just across the yard. He would trot back and forth, Aiyo following him, almost every day.

https://youtu.be/yGwUtNn06UE

Until yesterday. It was too cold for Bart to go outside, so he had the run of the shop. He was fine in the early afternoon; but something had changed by that evening.

I was reflecting this afternoon on some of the gifts Bart gave me over the last nine months.

He taught me perseverance. How hard it was, those first days, to get him used to taking the milk bottle! He did not give up, however. He would take little breaks where he would run the length of the pen, stopping only when he would bump into the fencing. He learnt when to stop and turn before too long, and would always trot back to the sound of my voice, screeching to a halt right in front of the bottle. 

He was friendly to everyone who came to visit him. He judged no one on their varying skill levels with the milk bottle. He was grateful for what he received and patient when some members of Team Bart were not quite as competent as others. He did his best and assumed everyone else did the same. 

He was resilient. He was brave. He was picked on by a couple of the playground pals, but he did what Mr Rogers told kids to do when they found themselves in difficulties: look for the helpers. He knew who would give him cover, and he learnt how to avoid the others. 

He liked his food and he loved his water. He would lap at it for hours. The GR ensured that he had fresh water twice a day, but not too much that he would get waterlogged! 

He was peaceable and loving and he spent a good portion of each day walking around, whether inside the calving barn, in the pen or in the shop. 

And he would always make his way to the voices of the humans who loved him. 

The GR went to check on him at about 1:30 this morning and he seemed to have perked up again. But when the GR went to scratch his belly, Bart just stood there, accepting the attention but not wriggling with his customary delight. 

At first light the GR headed over to the shop. 

And my phone rang. 

"He's gone. Little Bart's gone." My big tough Rancher's voice cracked. 

I made my way to the bathroom and flipped the page of my Choice Gleanings calendar to today's date. I am one who believes that God cares about all the things that His children care about. Look at the reading for today:

I dressed and made my way over to the shop. I quietly let myself in and gazed at his still, prone body and thought about how happy he made me when I could watch him running freely and joyously in between swallows of formula; how in tough times I could just go to him and rest my head on his back and he would stand motionless as my tears fell on his silvery hide; how he would always come to me whenever he heard my voice; the wonderful evening I finally heard HIS voice. I thought of the many people who have taken an interest in him and have been rooting for him, our little calf who never grew much above 300 lbs. 

Through my tears I noticed something I had never seen before. 

Blind Bartimaeus's eyes had always been sort of cloudy, a bit unfocused. 

But as he lay there, his eye half opened was luminous, a deep brown, sparkling. Like he was looking at something we couldn't see. 

And right then and there, I knew that I would never wish him back. 

My Bart was free.

I slowly reached for my phone and dialled The Kid.