Hard times for the herd...

It was a sun-soaked fragrant afternoon on the alm when a tractor trundled its way up the hill. Within a half hour, a pathetic, lowing cortege of cows trailed behind the machine as it carried its cargo down the slope. A mother cow was dead, fallen down a steep slope, likely the night before. One of the neighbouring hut’s herd, everyone seemed to take it in their stride, explaining that years can pass without such incident, then two or three cows can die from falls or lightning strikes in one summer. Then just days later, nature filled the eerie void. An early surprise, a sweet tiny calf was born to one of our cows in the middle of night – and on the middle of the mountain. Mother doing well -- actually she was sold the next day but she looked in good spirits considering her world was being ripped apart. And little Daisy (my top name choice obviously) has her own bijou stable laden with sawdust and hay, and her surprisingly loud moo sounds more like a goat. She is up and running, drinking heartily from a grey plastic bucket with a pink spout, and wondering where her mother is. I told her it's you and me against the world. She seems happy as a goat.