A prolapsed cow? That’s not what I signed up for…!

On Saturday, we got a call from the local shinty team asking if they could play their match against Glasgow in our field at the head of the Loch, since theirs was waterlogged. This meant Flo’s first proper assignment: moving sheep out of the field so lines could be painted/ goals erected, etc. Flo is still running doggedly - excuse the pun - at the sheep without really listening to instructions, but we got there in the end. She’s used to working in a confined space, so to ease her in we’re going to work her in the front field with just four or five sheep. When she starts taking orders in a comfortable environment, we’ll gradually introduce her to longer distance tasks with more sheep. It’s best not to do too much too soon.

Fraser and Flo

The shinty match proved a great way of meeting the locals, many of whom are avid supporters of the local team, shouting things like: “straigggght dooon th’ line, Hamish!”, and “drrrrive it, Jimmy!”. Coco had fun meeting the other local dogs, and particularly enjoyed beating up a little 10 month old Jack Russell. She certainly relished being the bigger dog for once. Shinty is a bit like hockey, except there doesn’t seem to be a height restriction when it comes to stick swinging, which makes it rather dangerous in my view. They don’t even wear helmets, so decapitation must be an occupational hazard! The local team is trying to rope Fraser into playing. I’ve said I value his face too much, though I fear I may be outnumbered – more on that in due course, I suspect! 

After the match, the shinty players jumped into the Loch to wash – the water's quite warm, apparently, though I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be for us Southerners – and we all went to the local pub in Colintraive for a few drinks. Unfortunately, this is twenty minutes from home and muggins here had to drive. Saturday nights ain’t what they used to be! 

Yesterday, we had our first experience of a cow’s afterbirth prolapse. For anyone who doesn’t know what this means, Google it, as I’d rather not spell it out. The vet had to come out, and it was touch and go for a while as to whether the animal would survive. Thankfully, after an epidural, much manipulation and for want of a better phrase, ‘shoving it back in’, the cow survived and was reunited with her calf. Unfortunately, she’s been somewhat bad tempered since – understandable given her ordeal – and we have to give her antibiotics via injection every day. Here’s hoping we’re still alive to deliver the next blog!