Worst Job?

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?  I’m sure that some of you are laughing, especially if you’re retired or no longer have the same job.  Some of you have said something like,  “That was a s****y job, let me tell ya.”

 

I spent the first day of 2008 out at the ranch.  You probably won’t be surprised to hear that the day started with my catching and saddling a horse.  Willy and I loaded the two horses in a trailer and were driven to the upper end of the ranch.  Our job was to bring all the cows in.  It was an adventure which I’d be pleased to recount but it was what we did after we got the cows penned that made the day unique.  I’d never done that before, but I’m sorry to say that I’ll probably have to do a bit more of it in the near future.

 

The basic story is that we were trying to collect samples of feces from every adult bovine on the place, just under 110 animals.  Since this is a ranch we’re talking about, feces isn’t the word we used.  Further the procedure is designed to keep each sample from contaminating any other.  The collector has to change gloves after each collection but before that he has to put some, but not too much, of his collected material in a small round metal can with a snap lid, similar to that used to hold a popular breath mint.

 

It was my job to write the ear tag number of each animal on a numbered recording sheet with a ball point pen, which didn’t write well in the literally freezing temperature until I learned to put it in my pants pocket after each use.  I also had to write the line number, animal number, and page number on the lid of the can with a Sharpie, and hold the can while the collector put the, well you know, in it.  I have to give the collector credit.  Only rarely did he get any on me.  Then I popped the lid on, wiped off any excess with a paper towel, and further sealed the can with strapping tape.  I had a young female assistant who cut the tape for me as well as calling out the animal number. 

 

There were three others involved in the process. There were five Farises and me.  My young female assistant was Wes’s fifth grade daughter Riley.  Wes and JJ were the brothers in charge of moving the animals into the squeeze chute.  Their dad, Willy, squeezed the animal’s neck while the collector, Willy Jr. reached into the, well you can guess the ranch word, to get a small handful, and put some into the can and sometimes a drop or two on my hand.  I didn’t get a glove.

 

Half a dozen cows, no problem.  110, it has to resemble an assembly line.  Towards the end, we were getting pretty efficient, and the ridiculousness of what we were doing almost stopped being humorous.  At first we cracked up whenever we looked at each other.  Too the jokes about guacamole, or sandwich spread had worn thin.  Then disaster of a sort struck. 

 

With fourteen cows to go we ran out of cans.  The scientists who devised this careful plan, who require the samples to be stored at 80 degrees below zero Fahrenheit if not shipped with 24 hours of collection, who caution about changing gloves after each collection, didn’t accurately count the cans they shipped.  So we’ll come back to finish when they ship more.  Not to worry, we’re a well-tuned s**t collection machine now.  If anyone asks how my New Year’s Day was, you know what I’d like to say.

 

 

Some background information.  There is some kind of cattle disease called Johnes, pronounced yonies.  It is apparently passed from cow to cow through contact with feces.  Because Willy, the collector, sells bull calves to a man who wants to be able to ship bulls to all states, we have to test.  

Jeff Arnold