Then I put the old, tighter weaner on Henry, the foster bull calf, my most determined milk thief. Henry was so outraged when I put it in his nose in his stall, he fell to the ground and lay there with his eyes rolling until I unclipped and removed his halter and said, “Don’t be silly.” Then he jumped back to his feet.
Then I let all the big calves out. There was no mobbing of Moxie. Everyone proceeded sedately to the hay piles to eat hay. (Notice the wind had scattered the hay wastefully across the snow.)
No one even approached Moxie’s udder! I was astonished. As I mucked the barn over the next hour, from time to time I peeked out to observe.
Stewart continued to accept the situation, eating hay placidly next to his mother.
Dorrie made one small feint toward the bag. Moxie lifted her head and stared. You’ve got to be kidding me. Dorrie slunk away.
Henry eventually went over and fumbled under Moxie’s flank for a teat. With the old-style weaner on, he could not slurp one into his mouth. He butted the udder in frustration with his spiked nose. Moxie jumped. She did not kick him with a hoof (as she could easily have done; cows can aim their kicks with great accuracy). Instead she simply kept her legs moving so he was bumped away by her jostling thigh. After only thirty seconds, he gave up.
A few minutes later I watched Henry trudge to the water trough for his morning drink.
* Sigh.* No more milk bar.
Hooray! Last night two-week-old Cooper had the whole bag of warm milk to himself. His tail was wagging and lashing with delight.