Goodbye Buttermilk
- kevinboothscp
- 1 day ago
- 3 min read
Roughly four years ago, my sister Shelley informed me that our old cow Buttermilk—who was about 20, or in cow years, 80—had wandered off into the woods to die of old age. She said that without teeth he could no longer keep up with his needs, and his electrolytes were completely depleted.
I headed out into the back 40 and found him deep in the trees. My intention was to tell him goodbye and wish him well, but he gave me a look like he didn’t want to go yet—that he wanted to live.
So I raced into town and bought a massive watermelon, cut it up, and covered it in a generous amount of high-grade salt. About 24 hours later, old Butter was back at the compound, looking for more watermelon. I had saved him—and in the process, created a monster I now felt responsible for.
Soon my wife Trae started asking about our skyrocketing produce bills. I realized I needed a more sustainable solution. At the local feed store, I was told to buy “Super Beef,” aka sweet feed—basically a 50-pound bag of granola soaked in molasses. This stuff should be renamed COW CRACK, because after one use – cows will kill for it. And when the others, including our alpha steer Finn, discovered what Buttermilk was getting twice a day, it became war.
When winter hit, watermelons were no longer available, and now I found myself buying 50 bananas at a time. Again, Trae was asking about our insane produce bill. I told her my doctor said I needed more potassium. I think she bought it.
Seasons passed, and other, younger cows died of old age. This year, Buttermilk—who had survived 9/11, Operation Iraqi Freedom, Pizzagate and the decline of family values due to social media—turned 100 in cow years, or about 25 in people years.
He was really slowing down. I cranked it to the limit—pouring entire bottles of molasses and Redmond’s gourmet salt into his food. My sister was also giving him a wild beet pulp electrolyte concoction, and it became something of a competition to see how long we could keep him going.
A few days ago, I found him again in the woods, looking bad. I bought an off-market, personal watermelon, and when he refused to eat, I knew we had come to the end.
He had a slow, peaceful passing in his favorite place. We decided to have a vet come out, who injected him with enough phenobarbital to take down an army of Michael Jacksons. Buttermilk drifted off in a way we should all be so lucky to experience.
I don’t know anything about cow psychology, but the day before he passed, Finn—the alpha—started ramming him, and we had to separate them. I later learned that it’s actually a natural instinct—when an animal is weak or dying, the herd will sometimes push it away to protect the group from predators. It looks cruel, but it’s really about survival.
After the vet left, we let Finn come back over. He walked up, stopped short, and just stood there. You could see it hit him. The fight was over. The noise was gone.
Now Buttermilk rests out on a far section of the ranch—the place we take our dead. And Finn… Finn has been roaming the property, calling out for him. Loudly. Over and over. He’ll wander out to that spot, stand there, and call again, like he’s waiting for an answer that isn’t coming.
He’s definitely grieving—missing the brother he spent years pushing around.
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