Last year we home-slaughtered Konchita, an older cow who had become permanently lame. I can’t say it felt “good” to do this, but it felt right to give her a quick, humane death, and to pass on the skills of food harvesting and preparation. Working together to feed ourselves is a primal and satisfying experience.

We want to continue to pass on this knowledge in the community, as well as provide a respectful passage for animals that need to be culled. A year ago we had a number of older cows who were moving past their reproductive years, and at that time we set the intention of doing a home slaughter once a year.

So when December rolled around, I set out to organize this year’s event. Dalwhinnie was 14 years old and had not had a calf for four years. She was not an especially friendly cow and her inclination to swing her heavy head smartly at you when approached meant I didn’t approach her often. In my mind, she didn’t seem to have much purpose other than eating grass that other cows with calves could be eating, and she seemed like a good candidate, especially in a year with little rain.

I kept Dalwhinnie at the pasture with the little herd of moms and young calves that didn’t go out on range, planning to slaughter her in January when the cold weather would make processing the carcass easier. In that smaller herd I noticed her more. I could see that while she was definitely slower than the rest, she was still fit, and sometimes that slowness was just because she was less excitable by every little thing. She stayed with the herd, and was usually a calm presence lying a little to the side in the sun chewing her cud while all the small daily mom/baby dramas unfolded around her. I went ahead with sending out invitations to the slaughter, arranging for equipment, but something kept nagging at the back of my mind as I watched her. Some kind of unsettled feeling.

Five days ago, we moved the little herd from the Mason Pastures south a few miles to the Jarvi-Hall lease. We have kept cows there often in the past, but we haven’t had cows at this lease since I started caring for the herd. It’s new territory to me, and also to most of this herd. Because of this, we kept them in the corral for a couple days to let them get used to the new surroundings.  Friday morning I set it up to walk the herd from the corral to the main pasture.

I open the corral gate and start out in the lead, as this herd is well attuned to following me. As I look behind me I see (and feel viscerally) a swirl of confused cattle coming out the gate with no real sense of where they are or where to go. I know they will get it together in a minute, but before we all have a chance to regroup, Dalwhinnie trots right past me, straight as an arrow shot from a bow, grabbing the attention of the rest of the herd, who follow her—calves frisking and kicking at the back—right through the gate to the new pasture and up to the drinker.

I am struck almost to tears with the sudden physical recognition of how much Dalwhinnie knows that I don’t even know she knows. Or maybe even that I don’t know is important to know. Since we have been here in this place that is still unfamiliar to me, its clear that she recognizes Kathleen, the property caretaker; she knows the layout of the land; she knows what to eat in drought times; she likely knows about the lions prowling the river bottom. As I think about leaving this herd with its new mothers and little calves here on their own, I can think of no one I would more want to look after them in our absence than Dalwhinnie.

I realize now what has been bothering me: that we are actually in a very different place than we were when we made these plans a year ago. In addition to losing Konchita last January, we also lost Crockpot and Cruella this year, all cows from the older generation. With all the yearlings and calves, our herd is actually heavily weighted toward the younger animals, who just don’t have the experience of the older ones. The four replacement heifers hadn’t ever been on range before when we put them out in November. The oldest members of the herd may not be having calves every year (or even at all) but as long as they are healthy enough to keep up with the herd, they provide knowledge and support in ways I am likely not even aware of. And as James said when I talked to him about this, that knowledge is irreplaceable.

So this year’s home slaughter is cancelled. I am still committed to it as a practice, but I am taking it a little slower. In this new equation, with more factors included, it isn’t time yet for Dalwhinnie. Her time will come—as will each of ours—but not this season. This winter I am buying more pinto beans and re-committing again to slowing down—to let the herd and the land lead, and to be present to learn.