Baxter Black: Boot Camp

 

Do you ever give much thought to where your weaner steers and heifers go when you load’em on the truck or take’m to the sale?

You think maybe it’s like goin’ off to college? Stay in the dormitory, have a nice roommate who doesn’t bawl or stay up all night talking about the cute Charolais they met in the cafeteria.

Maybe join a fraternity or sorority, Milka Dama Cow. Play intramural head butting, horn wrestling or pin the tail on the Holstein? They can learn a foreign language like Corriente, Water Buffalo or Emu. And eventually graduate Phi Beta Moo and go on to Hi Concentrate Feedlot Graduate School eventually attaining a Ph D in Hi Choice. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Just like you imagine for your own kid going off to college. But the feedlot hands are reading this dreamy scenario like a drill sergeant listening to an Army recruiting ad; “Be all that you can be.”

A growing yard or feedlot is more like boot camp. No hallowed halls of ivy here. Does the name Powder River, WW or Bowman ring a bell? Indoctrination for recruits involves standing in line for hours, being shouted at and vaccinated for things you can’t pronounce. Sound familiar? The intimate dormitory sleeps 260.

Courses studied include Feed Ingredient Identification, Cowboy Outer Wear, Mud 101 and 102, and Hot Shot Evasion. Sports that are available for participation are Intramural Pneumonia, Find the Water Tank, Coughing Practice and Long Distance Diarrhea.

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Baxter Black: Cowboy Astrological Signs

 

Astrology is one of those wonderful pseudo-sciences like naturopathy or cattle futures that anybody with an imagination can rapidly become an expert in. I have taken it upon myself to devise my own astrological symbols. If there is some question which sign you were born under, just ask a friend. I present them to you now.

OKRA—People born under the sign of Okra are slippery, smooth talkin’ and slick. Without self-restraint they can slide right over on their face. Okras make good molasses salesmen.

HOLSTEIN CROSSES—These folks start out slow, never look like much but, like the sure and steady tortoise, often finish first in the race, to everyone’s surprise! Feed bosses and second sons fall under this sign.

COYOTE—Never one to hide from responsibility, they run from it! You hear them, you find their tracks, but they’re seldom seen. They east the crusty end piece offa’ loaf of bread, the fat offa’ ham and fried shrimp tails. You can find Coyotes migrating every fall from Wyoming ranches to Arizona feedlots.

FLASHING BEER SIGN—People found under this sign are steady, bright and occasionally incoherent. They gather wisdom and glow. Then they dispense it in a blinking neon blizzard. Often you will find nutritionist, veterinarians and economists in this category.

DICE—As you might guess these people have a tendency to leap without looking, buy beachfront property in Saskatchewan and flip for the tab. However, as long as they’re winning we see them as glamorous. Most Dice feed cattle.

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Baxter Black: Progress

 Imagine you were a livestock man in medieval England a thousand years ago. It’s early spring. Snow on the ground, mud in the cow lot. You walk the small pasture where the heavy heifers are kept. It’s hard to see much with just the moonlight. But you spot one that’s down in a swale. She’s on her side in the process of calving. One foot is showing.

You check the rest of the cows the best you can and go back to the heifer. No progress.You wait a little longer, then resigned to your duty, you walk back to the cow lot and set the gates.

On your way back to get the heifer the wind blows down your neck and you shiver. Using a long stick you got the heifer up and drive her into the cow lot. There’s some straw scattered behind the windbreak. She finds it and lays down.

You walk to the earthen roofed shed to collect your tools. You manage to ease up on her and drop a homemade halter over her head and tie her loosely to a post on the windbreak.

There is tepid water in your oaken bucket. After takin’ off your tunic you wash yer arms and kneel down behind her.

Taking a three-foot leather thong, you slip a noose around the protruding foot. Following yer father’s advice, you next slip a hand inside and search for the other foot. You attach a second thong to it, take a wrap around each hand and begin to pull.

By pulling when she pushes, resting when she rests, you and she finally deliver the calf two hours later.

You rub him down, get him under the flank to suck and get to bed at daybreak.

Sound familiar?

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Baxter Black: Calving Quiz

This is a quiz to determine your calving sanity (or help you pass time in the calving barn). Match the columns.

1. Aching A. Tongues

2. Black B. Back

3. C C. Batteries

4. Cold D. Boots

5. Cracked E. Calves

6. Dead F. Breath

7. Dry G. Buckets

8. Full H. Checks

9. Hot I. Squeeze

10. Leg J. Hands

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Baxter Black: Calving Quiz

 

This is a quiz to determine your calving sanity (or help you pass time in the calving barn). Match the columns.

1. Aching A. Tongues

2. Black B. Back

3. C C. Batteries

4. Cold D. Boots

5. Cracked E. Calves

6. Dead F. Breath

7. Dry G. Buckets

8. Full H. Checks

9. Hot I. Squeeze

10. Leg J. Hands

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Baxter Black: Believe It Or Not!

 

Do you believe in ghosts? How ‘bout angels? Miracles? Taro cards? I grew up believin’ in Heaven and all its assorted angelic inhabitants and their counterparts in the singed black hats. Reincarnation wasn’t taught in Sunday School but we were encouraged to believe that souls existed. So, with this sort of background it was easy for me to accept ghosts. Especially when I saw the ‘ghost of Yankee Bill Summit.’

This experience happened many years ago, but I was a full grown man with a full grown moustache. It was a crisp October and Lee and I had driven to Yankee Bill in northern Nevada. We and the cowboys had worked cows all day. Since we still had another days work we stayed over at the old sheep headquarters high up in those beautiful mountains.

That evening Antonio had cooked up a great Basque supper; friend sweet peppers, spuds, codfish, dutch oven bread and his special chicken fried steak. We sat around the table in the company of Ten High and Vino Fino, smoking and getting beat at checkers by Juan Garay.

It was cold and a moonless night when we retired. Lee and I took a room right off the dining area. We layed out our rolls on a couple of cots and waited for everyone to hit the sack. The wood floor of this old sheep headquarters carried each footstep like it was next to ya.

Late into the night Lee started talkin’ in his sleep and woke me. He rolled over and shut up but someone was standin’ over me. I strained to see him by the starlight. He was pullin’ his shirt over his head so I couldn’t see his face but he had on chinks, boots and big Mexican spurs.

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Baxter Black: If Herefords were black

If Herefords were black and Angus were red

would breeders of Herefords breed Angus instead?

I mean, would the people who bred Herefords first

be now breeding Angus if things were reversed.

Or would they be loyal to red, white and true

To color of cowlick be always true blue?

If such were the case would they dis all the blacks,

Tell jokes about prolapse, compare them to Yaks

More suited for saddle or wearin’ a yoke

Than stubbornly breeding until they go broke.

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Baxter Black: A cowful

 Grandpa Tommy’s dad used to say “A cowful is a substantial quantity.” According to my research, the rumen on a mature cow can hold up to 300 pounds. And by anybody’s standards that is quite a bit.

Say you had a cowful of pocket change. You’d almost need a cow to keep it in. Say you had a cowful of wet laundry. It would take a forklift to get it in the dryer. Say you had a cowful of manure. Well, I guess a lot of us do.

If cowful became an accepted unit of measure it could replace the antiquated English standards like the dram and the rod. And those bland, simple minded metric names that somehow sound communistic; kiloliter, hectometer, decigram. Can you picture in your mind a decigram? Is it the weight of a decimated graham cracker? Or ten grandma’s standin’ on the scale?

Under the cowful system 15 scoopfuls would equal a cowful. Two bootfuls would make a scoopful, two hatfuls would make a bootful. Half a hatful would equal a capful. 6 canfuls, as in beer cans, makes a capful. One canful equals 40 thimblefuls, 20 teardrops in a thimbleful.

The dosage for penicillin would read: 4 teardrops per 5 scoopfuls of body weight IM.

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Baxter Black: RHINO LOVE

Dr. Fosse, once of Pretori, told me about Martha and Arthur, two star crossed rare white rhinos. In a governmental gesture of goodwill, South Africa agreed to ship Arthur to Tanzania to mate with Martha. Brilliant veterinarians, competent game management officials, long winded reproductive specialists and the press discussed at length the procedures involved and the benefits that would accrue with these international relations.

They soon discovered that rhinos cycle according to the length of daylight hours. Martha, on Equatorial Daylight Time, was never quite synchronized with Arthur, on Tropic of Capricornical Time. When he was randy she had a headache and when she was cuddly he was not in the mood.

However, our team of deep thinkers figgered a way around it. They’d artificially inseminate Martha! I can just see these characters squatting under an Acacia tree, breakin’ out a case of Congo Lite and drawing their plans in the dirt with pipettes.

 But since Martha wasn’t cooperating anyway and no sweet smelling rhino geldings were around, they decided to collect Arthur’s semen with an electro ejaculator.

Enlisting the aid of their agricultural engineers, they built a homemade ejaculator out of wire, copper electrodes, a hand crank and lots of electrical tape.

Arthur was quite tame so on the big day they led him out with a loop around the horn and tied him to a thorn tree. With proper lubrication, the head mogul inserted the prod and set the cowboys to crankin’. Alas, Arthur showed no response.

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Baxter Black: An Embarrassing Column

Embarrassing moments. Nobody likes to talk about them. Oh, they’ll talk about slipping on the ice on their first date or getting bucked off a gentle horse. Other folks empathize and usually they laugh. But it makes people uneasy when it’s really embarrassing. They might titter nervously but if it’s really awful it makes us uncomfortable. It could happen to me!

Like the time I leaned into a car window and asked a new acquaintance to dance and she didn’t have any legs. It was shattering to a high school boy, not to mention the girl. Or introducing an old friend and his wife to my family and calling his wife by his ex wife’s name.

Faux pas are always exaggerated when you are in the company of someone other than your family. Cocktail or dinner parties with guests are fertile ground for embarrassment: Halfway through dinner you glance in the mirror and discover you should have blown your nose an hour ago: finding gravy (dried, of course) on your black dress; sneaking off to powder your nose, quietly closing the door, gently running the water – then you flush and it sounds like a dump truck unloading nine yards of gravel into an empty grain bin.

In veterinary work there is an association of vets who have spayed tomcats. Cowboys take a great delight in runnin’ a rangy ol’ steer in with a bunch of cows at cow workin’ time. I’ve preg-checked a thousand steers – but at least I’ve never called one bred.

Then there was poor ol’ Fred (an alias) who was worried about climbing on his roof to shovel off the snow. So he took his rope and tied it to the back bumper of his pickup in the front yard. Looping it around his waist he went up on the roof and over the peak. His wife left for town…in his pickup. Broke both his legs, his pelvis and one wrist.

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Baxter Black: Pleasure Horse

 I consider myself among other things, a former horse mechanic. The horses I did veterinary work on were ranch and feedlot beasts of burden. Workin’ animals from man’s point of view.

Up until about fifty years ago that would describe most of the horses vets worked on. I was always a little vain about distinguishing that my patients worked for a living, earned their daily oats and made a contribution to the good of mankind.

Backyard horse practice sorta ranked with spayin’ cats and trimming Chihuahua’s toenails.

That same kind of ‘snobbery’ still exists, I think. Somehow working on a valuable race horse, a Tennessee walkin’ show horse, an endurance Arabian, a Budweiser Clydesdale, Fred Whitfield’s ropin’ horse, Kathy Petersen’s barrel racin’ horse, a New York city policeman’s horse, a ranch horse, a rodeo bucker, a Quarterhorse cutter, an outfitter’s packmule or a Lippizan performer is interpreted as doing something more worthwhile than floating the teeth on a backyard plug.

These working horses have a purpose. That dignifies your veterinary efforts, lends some value to your education and experience. All your acquired ability isn’t being wasted in frivolous endeavor on a horse that isn’t really ‘workin’ for a livin’.

But, with all that being said, what’s work to a horse? Is it something they feel good about? Does it give them a sense of self worth? Of course not.

Baxter Black: WEE THANKSGIVING

 How do you explain Thanksgiving to a 3 year old?

“A long time ago…”

“Pirates?”

“No, good guys and mamas and babies…”

“And boys, too?”

“Yup, and boys, too. But when they got in the woods they were hungry but they didn’t know what to eat.”

“And they had bears in the woods, and tigers.”

“Probably, but they didn’t see them. So they were hungry and walked around looking for something to eat. And then came the Indians who lived in the woods.”

“With… with bows and arrows and shooting…?”

“No, no. The Indians said they would help them find something good to eat…”

“Like fruit bars and pop tarts and chickanuggets…”

“Well, the Indians said they should have a picnic and so the Indians got some turkeys to eat and they cooked’em and made fry bread and corn on the cob…”

“But no peas, but some cottage cheese and bread and honey…”

“Right, so they made a big table…”

“On the blanket…”

“Yeah, no table, just a big blanket and they all ate and ate till their stomachs were full…”

“And the little boys, too?”

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Baxter Black: ‘Kinda makes a feller soft’

They stood in the back of the room lookin’ like two Las Vegas Raiders linebackers at a preppie quiche-tasting party. They had on unblocked hats with flat brims, and each man wore a neck scarf and new Wrangler’s. Steve ambled over and asked where they were from. “Nevada,” they said, “We ranch.”

They discussed the cattle business and bad-mouthed the government, as usual. Pretty soon they got to discussin’ mutual acquaintances. Steve had a friend named Pat from way up around Brothers, Oregon.

“Quite a character,” Steve said. “Pat would trade out vet work with his neighbors. One day, one of his ranching neighbors who was an ex-mechanic came over. Pat asked him to walk around his ol’ beat-up tractor to see if it needed anything. The neighbor took a professional stroll around the rusting and dented piece of antique farm machinery and said, ‘Pat, if you’d pump up that right front tire, it’d steer better.’”

Pat lived and ranched 12 miles from the tiny town of Brothers, but the wife and kids lived in the nearest big town 60 miles away. Four years ago he finally got a radiotelephone. He rings through a big transmitter on a mountain top and patches into the Portland exchange 200 miles away.

“We know Pat,” said the Nevada boys, “He’s been down our way lookin’ to buy a place. Seemed like a nice enough guy but we’re worried about him. See, we don’t have no phone. Turns out he spends weekends in town with his wife and kids. That ain’t the best way to run a ranch, ya know. Livin’ that close to town kinda makes a feller soft.”

Steve asked, “How far out are you?”

“Wull,” said the buckaroo, “My ranch is 72 miles from Fallon, but the one he is lookin’ at was a ways off the road.”

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Baxter Black: The Outfitter’s Jerky

 

In hunting camp an outfitter reached down and stirred the fire.

His client belched contentedly and said, “Might I inquire,

That jerky you been chewin’ up… could I just try a bit?

I fancy I’m a connoisseur with tongue and palate fit

To ferret out the kind of beast, perhaps the cut of meat

From whence you carved the bloody strap and held it to the heat.”

The packer passed a little piece to test the boastful claim,

The hunter in his down-filled vest bit in and then proclaimed,

“I taste a hint of kidney fat. The tang of creosote.

A wistful note of pine tree bough lays pungent in my throat.

What’s this? A waft of ungulate, the glue of hoof and horn,

An Eohippus redolence, the musk of unicorn.

Peculiar, though I fear I’m stumped. I can’t tell heads nor tails.

I’m left with just the essence of burnt hair and roofing nails.

I pride myself on this small skill but if you could be swayed,

Pray, tell me from what animal is this here jerky made?”

The packer picked his grimy teeth, his filthy knife, the tool.

“It all began,” he spit and said, “with one ol’ stubborn mule

Named Demon, and the name sure fit. Worst mule I’ve ever seen.

Last hunt when we were comin’ out he really got down mean.

It took us nearly half a day to git the sucker packed.

He’d buck the panyards off each time and roll clear on his back.

He kicked and struck and strained the knots, he bit and brayed and gassed,

We finally had to tie him down to get the elk made fast.

At last he stood and glared at us, resigned but not unbowed.

We started down the mountain side as best the load allowed.

We had to cross a narrow trail above a closed down mine.

The Demon went to pullin’ back, I’d hitched him last in line.

He balked, then had a mental lapse… forgot that he was tied

And then just like a fumbled punt he cartwheeled down the side.

I got off quick and bared my knife, and dove between the mules

I slashed the halter shank between the mule train and the fools.

Down we went, an avalanche of elk and mule and man,

The antlers cracked, the cookware clanked, the Coleman stove and pans,

The propane tank was hissin’, the elk meat lashed up tight,

I hit the shale below the mine, the mule dropped outta sight.

Next thing I knew a blinding light exploded in my eyes.

And when the dust had settled, the mule had vaporized.

I peeked down in the mine shaft through the timbers and the smoke

And knew ol’ Demon at long last had shed his final yoke.

He never knew what hit him, so at least it wasn’t cruel.”

“Gosh,” the hunter shook his head, “I’m sorry ‘bout yer mule.

But back to this here jerky, do you share you recipes?”

“Well, wuddn’t nuthin’ to it. I just picked it off the trees.”

Tri-State Livestock News

Baxter Black: KELLY’S HALLOWEEN

 It was a bad day at Black Rock that fateful Halloween.

It all began the week before, the call had seemed routine.

“I’ve got a mare needs checkin’, Doc, I b’lieve the sweetheart’s bred.”

“I’ll swing by there this afternoon,” Good Doctor Kelly said.

The mare was mincing round the stall as Kelly donned the sleeve.

“This should only take a second,” his assessment was naive.

“She’s just a little nervous, Doc, but…I guess I would be too.

If you were pointin’ that at me I’d kick you to Timbucktu!”

Which is precisely what she did. So fast it was a blur.

The next day poor ol’ Kelly wore a cast from hip to spur.

With two days of the heal up, his left leg plasterized,

He volunteered to take a call. I know it wasn’t wise.

But you know men, like him I mean, a grad of Colorado

Whose head, if not for gristle wouldn’t even cast a shadow.

Another horse. A small wire cut there just below the hock.

“He’s gentle as a new born lamb. He’d never hurt you, Doc.”

And sure enough he blocked the site, though awkwardly, I’d think.

He had to spread his legs the way giraffes bend down to drink.

Relieved, he got his suture out, assumed the bent position

About the time a fly appeared in search of fly nutrition.

And lit upon the horse’s foot. Just fate I would suppose.

The pony kicked to flick the fly but caught the doctor’s nose. Sideways.

Which left a thumb sized piece of schnoz now dangling from the tip

Like half a jalapeño flapping down upon his lip.

Thirty stitches…on the outside. Then they taped that sucker tight

But them M.D.’s must’uve chuckled ‘cause that bandage was a sight.

It stuck out like a gear shift, like the fruit on prickly pear,

Like a big white avocado on a chain saw grizzly bear.

He stayed at home the next two days hibernating in his cave

Until his wife had asked his help. The instructions that she gave

were “Pick the kids up right at nine at Johnson’s, Second Street.

They’re at a party, Halloween. Maybe you could Trick or Treat.”

“Very funny,” Kelly fumed. But when nine o’clock came around

He wedged his cast into the truck and drove himself to town.

When they let him in the Johnson’s house he matched the decorations.

The kids all froze. Then screamed in fear and heebie jeebie-ations!

“The mummy! No, it’s Frankenstein! It looks so realistic!”

With crutch and cast and nose and scowl it dang sure was sadistic.

But the scream that topped the evening off was, in Mr. Johnson’s view,

When he grabbed and jerked the bandage off and said, “Hey, I know you!”

Tri-State Livestock News

Baxter Black: The young politician

 

He rose in the class, hand over his heart

And spoke of his future career

“The political ring’s where I’ll throw my hat

I love the applause and the cheers.”

“I’ll learn all the buzzwords, and then make some up

Like mandate and flexible goals.

Ecoelastic alternative tax

With built-in confusing loopholes.

“Inflation, deflation, reliable source

I’ll climb the political rungs

And dazzle the voters with rhetorical quotes

And the art of speaking in tongues.

I’ll master the impasse and walk on the fence

I’ll be brilliant, incisive and wise

When it comes the time to put conscience aside

I’ll vote for the best compromise.”

He told all his friends ‘bout running for “Pres”

The word got around in no time

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Baxter Black: Religious Reflections

I was sittin’ in the back row of a beautiful little church in a mountain town in the Rockies. I was there for the wedding of a daughter of good friends.

As the service progressed, my attention was drawn to a banner that hung on the wall. It was handmade, cut from cloth and intended to be inspiring. It read, Mount Up With Winos.

Many thoughts went through my mind as I tried to absorb the full meaning of this elaborate banner. I had come to realize over the years that many Protestant churches have become more liberal in their teachings. Acceptance of alternative lifestyles, less moral browbeating, less blatant emphasis on money, more convenient schedules and greater tolerance of lesser sins; i.e. fall football, alcohol, sex and non-Christian religions.

And there is something to be said for that religious creed. After all, Jesus himself never discriminated.

Bein’ a thinker myself, I began to concoct other potential banner slogans that might be acceptable in this New Age congregation; Ride with the Risque, Sail with Sinners, Lie Down with the Licentious, Commune with the Immoral, Huddle with the Homeless, Do Lunch with the Offender.

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Baxter Black: Just A Dog

 

You were just a dog. But a good dog.

Right from the start. Your loyalty was never in question. And what you didn’t know, you didn’t know because I never took the time to teach you.

When you were young I was harder on you. I expected you to understand the basics… and you learned them. A “bad dog” was like a whip on your back.

But when uncontrollable instinct got you in trouble, I didn’t hold it against you. I doc

tored you up, changed your bed and remembered that reason gets left behind in the heat of passion, be it skunks, gyps or cloven hooves.

You were patient with the young, pups or kids. They pulled your hair, barked around you in circles and rode on your back. I never had to worry. They were safe with you.

You suffered the indignities of veterinary examinations, injections, probings and over

night incarcerations, refusing always to lift your leg under anyone’s roof.

You posed for pictures, rode on loads like an acrobat and endured spring clippings yet never lost your sense of dignity.

A fierce guardian of your territory, you did your best to protect us. I knew better than to shout you down at two in the morning. I always figgered you were barking for a purpose.

Old age was not unkind to you. Despite the hearing loss, cataracts and stiff joints, you carri
ed on. Sure, I had to help you get in the pickup, but you were part of the crew. I noticed you ate less, slept late and turned gray but you never lost your enthusiasm for bein’ part of our outfit.

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Baxter Black: CARHARTT COWBOY

Mr. Moses remarked the other day he’d received a catalog in the mail from a western clothing outfit. He wasn’t sure who the outfit catered to, but the name ‘Long Island’ seemed to stick in his mind.

The photo on the front had burned an image into his brain. A male model stood in cowboy posture, a Clint Eastwood steely-eyed glare glinting from beneath the brim of his Zorro hat.

It appeared that moths had eaten the collar off his shirt. He wore a duster that was sort of a cross between Jim Bridger’s old trapping coat and Santa Ana’s parade uniform. Mr. Moses guessed it weighed more than a wet hallway carpet. There was an odd collection of gold chains, buttons, military pins, silver boot toe tips, training spurs and epaulettes decorating his wardrobe. He looked like a Korean General just returned from a Rotarian’s convention.

Mr. Moses imagined himself dressed like the cowboy on the cover of the catalogue, jangling out to feed the cows and break ice. Him hangin’ his giant rowel and jingle bob on the twine as he kicked a bale off the back of the flatbed. Being jerked flat into the muddy rut, cows tromping giant footprints on the tail of his coat, the dog running off with his pancake hat. Then rising, sodden and trudging off rattling and clanging like a Moroccan bride with a limp.

“Shoot,” he said, “I couldn’t even walk up to a horse dressed like that.”

Mr. Moses considers himself a Carhartt cowboy...

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Baxter Black: The Feedlot Woman

I have known and worked with many women in the feedlot business. Some as cowboys, some as vets, some as lay doctors, as cattle processors, feed truck drivers, foremen (or forepersons) and managers (or should that be womanagers?).

Lest you think I’m going to waste your time with a commentary on cute political correctness witticisms, relax, I’m not. Nor do the feedlot women I know waste their time with political correctness. I think I’d be safe in saying affirmative action doesn’t have much impact in the typical feedlot. The women working there earn their place.

And it is a chauvinist world. But the big equalizer is animals. The crew can tell in a hurry if a new person knows how to handle stock. Should some macho bluffer start pickin’ on a new woman and she turns out to be a good hand, he’ll back off (or the crew will straighten him out.) A good hand, regardless of gender is recognized and welcome. It’s been said, and I tend to agree, that women seem to have more empathy with animals, even feedlot animals. It’s noticeable in the sick pens, in the processing area, loading fats and raising orphan calves.

There are exceptions in both genders, of course. There are plenty of men who don’t feel the need to jab a new steer two times with a hot shot before the tailgate opens ahead of them. There are men who exercise patience when pulling a calf from some fat pregnant feedlot heifer. And there are men who have some compassion for a beast in trouble.

On the other hand, there are women who treat cattle like inanimate objects or judge a good day by the number of head processed rather than how much unneeded stress was created. If women are easier on cattle maybe it’s the mother instinct...

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