In the dark but for Musk’s rocket: Shining a light on night-time farming in Kilmichael
I had the vet out, a night call over the weekend.
A calving cow was in need of veterinary intervention.
The cow was away up in the boggy field, she went into labour earlier than anticipated.
As the vet and myself made our way up the land by tractor, I advised him that the light in my torch was on the last legs.
“So once we get there,” says I “you’d want to be getting the calf out quickly, or else we might be calving in the dark.”
The vet agreed, for he is a very wise and obliging man.
Soon we were knee-deep in calving, and my old lamp was dimming dramatically.
The sad, reflective poem by Dylan Thomas on ‘the dying of the light’ came into my head.
But I didn’t trouble the vet with my thoughts, for he had enough to do without burdening him with poetry.
I said as he struggled with the cow that it was a pity I didn’t have a light to assist him, and the vet agreed.
For, with darkness descending, he knew he would soon be fumbling in the dark.
My vet did Trojan work, and was about to deliver the calf, when our dim light went out, and now we were in complete darkness.
And nothing, I assure you, is as black as the darkness we get out here.
It’s Guinness black.
Finally, in frustration, my vet was heard to mutter, “Houston, we have a problem.” For, while a patient man in so many ways, he was finally feeling the pressure.
Well if he was, out of nowhere, there suddenly came this light from the sky, and beyond, as I was soon to discover. “That’s Musk’s rocket!” my vet cried out in delight, for as well as being a first-rate vet, he’s also a keen stargazer.
“Well, if it is,” says I “he couldn’t be passing at a better time.”
The light from his rocket filled the whole field from rickety post to collapsing pillar.
His light ended our darkness and allowed us to continue our great work.
Musk’s light from the sky was all my vet needed, and on he worked.
Finally, a calf appeared.
And a finer Angus-Jersey bull you wouldn’t see at any show.
He was mad for road. Mad for the suck.
After a time, Musk’s light faded, just like my old torch.
Alas, the vet was far from finished.
“I wish,” he cried “Musk’s rocket would stand still just a little longer, for I still have to find all my implements and tools.”
Well, being an impatient fellow, I roared at the sky, demanding that Musk halt his rocket to the moon or wherever, until our job was complete down here on planet earth. And didn’t his craft halt its progress for a spell longer, the light now again shining on us.
“Thank you, Musk!” I roared back for I was grateful to the man, and his patience.
With our work done, and the calving work complete, the rocket moved on, taking with it the hopes and dreams of an American public, desperately seeking an escape trip to the moon or someplace.
But not before having helped deliver a fine calf down here on this farm in Kilmichael.
