Spancelled: “To those who thole a life spancelled with cows.”

‘Spancel, An animal fetter, esp one used to hobble a cow during milking.’ OED.

It may seem an unusual thing to do, commissioning a life-sized sculpture of a man and cow to stand at the gateway to a modern Dairy.

But when you think about it, for a man whose life has been devoted to working with cows as a farmer, and later as a Dairy owner and businessman, Eamon Cunningham’s idea for a sculpture of a man and cow entitled ‘Spancelled’ at the entrance to the family dairy makes perfect sense.

For Eamon, it is the most natural thing in the world, to mark and to celebrate in a unique way, what he considers to be one of the most important symbiotic relationships in Irish life.

The Cunningham family have been involved in dairy farming in Omagh for around 160 years. And, as a market town with a rural hinterland, Omagh has itself had an integral relationship with livestock, dairy and beef farming, the animal feed industry, tanning and the country markets.

Eamon’s father and grandfather were integral to that, involved in everything from tanning animal hides to supplying milk. Eamon himself ran the family dairy for years, and spent his time as Patrick Kavanagh memorably described it ‘outside in the cow house. . . made the music of milking’.

Eamon says: ‘I have been lucky to earn a living from farming and from the Dairy. The dairy farming has been taken over by [my son] Cormac.’

He laughingly admits he didn’t necessarily take to dairy farming naturally saying:

“If I had a fractious enough relationship with cows, Cormac is a natural with the animals. Looking after them, giving them fodder, calving, milking. You should watch him. Marvellous.”

It reminded me of Ted Hughes description of cows ‘Cantankerous at the hay’. In almost a single breath Eamon moves from his own experiences, to what he describes as the symbiotic link between man and cow. It is that instinctive expression and appreciation of knowing that man and cow have always co–existed side by side that led him to commission a sculpture by the well-known artist John Behan.

It is easy to infer that the man in the sculpture is Eamon, but it isn’t – it represents every farmer that ever worked with cows. It is says Eamon a celebration of that and something that he hopes may make people stop for a moment and think.

Eamon followed in the footsteps of his brother Pauric in re establishing the Strathroy Dairy in 1972 in part to provide employment at a time when it was needed in Omagh and in part because it was the natural and obvious thing to do for a dairy farmer whose family had an established name in the Dairy industry in Omagh and West Tyrone.

It is now one of the best-known dairy businesses in the Island of Ireland.

And the alpha and omega of that industry, of dairy life and of the farm in Strathroy is man and cow, cow and man. Spancelled.

Footnote:

The dedication: ‘To those who thole a life spancelled with cows.’

http://youtu.be/X8QGWBLTGrk

http://youtu.be/X8QGWBLTGrk
A while back I extended the wireless network in the house/office so that we could get access anywhere. I also hoped that by boosting the wireless coverage my mother might be able to piggyback from her house a few doors up. To achieve that I think I’d need a industrial strength transmitter.

One of the advantages of this new network coverage is that I can hook up Airplay devices through the house, pumping music from room to room. I also now can sit out in the back garden on one of the many balmy summer’s days we have and do some work.

And so today that was possible. I read a bit. Wrote a couple of draft pieces for a client. Had a telephone call to make. Twas hard to beat really. A cup of coffee, sitting back in the sun. Until. . .

On Friday last Angela brought home from school a couple of pet rabbits called Beano and Dandy. Beano so called because he’s an albino, a furry wee white critter. Dandy named presumably because you can’t have a comic without a straight man, and in the case of these two comedians Dandy is the joker. He certainly made a fool out of me. The children love them of course and its hard not to be enchanted when they bunny hop hither and thither about their wee stockade. Until. . .

So there I am working the outdoor life when I catch a glimpse of the corner of my eye of the lad Dandy merrily skipping rabbitly across the garden. Born free, Maze escaper, Houdini fan, whatever. Off he went hoppity hop, stopping here and there for a quick much of grass, a taste of dandelion, a soupcon of daisy. . . The wee bollix I thought.

We’ve two guinea pigs that routinely make a run for it when they get the chance outside but we’re wise to them. Dandy to be fair saw his chance and legged it.

I passed the next 45 minutes trying to lure the pesky varmint back into custody with a carrot (what else, c’mon we’ve all seen Bugs Bunny). Dandy looked at me munching a carrot: ‘What’s Up Doc?’ he said before skipping back under the hedge eluding my grasp once again. Then, off he went and hid under the garden shed, appearing round one side as I looked under the other.

By this stage the humour was off me. To lose one rabbit would be unfortunate, unforgiveable. How would I explain myself. So, I brought over the chair, and the iPad and settled down in front of the shed for the long haul. Either he surrendered or hopefully the kids would come back.

Within a short while Sorcha arrived skippily around the side of the house. Our own Dr Doolittle. I swear she can talk to the animals. Within three minutes with the help of Peter they had Dandy back behind bars.

I can see where Warner Brothers got the inspiration. Not for the faint hearted this working outdoors. It’s a jungle out there in business these days, and you never know what you might come up against.

That’s all folks.

Just now I was sitting working when a mobile butcher’s shop pulled up outside my house. The driver sauntered over to the house and hit me with his rehearsed speech.

He travels round neighbourhoods from as far away as Ballymena and Ballycastle selling fresh meat. He used to have a butcher’s shop in Ballymoney until his father died. Ever since the family business has switched to the van.

On invitation I wandered over to the van and had a look inside. It was like a very small village butchers with cuts of meat set out in a small counter, much like you would see at one of the country markets that appear in our high streets. This guy was showing his meat to the people.

He had a food standard rating of 4 out of a possible 5 he told me up front. I admired his resourcefulness and his honesty. And his enterprising nature. I was surprised when he told me he had no high street or even village street presence. This was it, one man and his meat. In a van.

I admit I wasn’t blown away by his set up, but it was impressive. It reminded me of the old grocery vans that used to deliver back in Omagh in my distant childhood. There was something homely about them and the combination of smells that assailed my childish nostrils when I ventured in there.

In the butcher’s van the smell of flesh was heavy, oppressive and slightly overwhelming. He had a fridge on board, the place looked clean and tidy. And crucially for me there were no flies, always a good sign. I told him I would keep an eye for him on his return. I think it is the second such van doing the rounds of late – I may have imagined it but I thought I saw a fresh fish van drive up our way last week. If it appears again I will stop it and board it for inspection.

The point of this story is this. A while ago I wrote a piece for the Marketing Institute of Ireland on the use of social media in marketing. It referenced the way a crêpe seller in San Francisco with a handcart promoted his wares using Twitter. It was brilliant.

It got me thinking today, as you do. What if our mobile meat man had a Twitter account. What if he could tell his followers of his whereabouts each day?

What special offers he had, what special cuts and what this week’s sausages were. How do his customers know where to find him? Could the one man van and his meat have a Facebook page? And why not?

Without this insight he is like a modern day Telemachus travelling aimlessly in a meat Odyssey hoping to meet Ulysses. Along the way he may run into sirens posing as desperate housewives and the odd oxen of the sun. Whatever, the opportunity is there. Likewise the opportunity is also there to all those doing the country market circuit.

I let him go without offering any insight. Maybe next time. First I’d need to be sure I would buy his meat myself. After all, it’s all about the product.

Sorcha, with Hub never too far away.

This day last week I took our dog to the vet and had her put to sleep. I stayed with her and held her as the vet administered the lethal dose. Hub gradually relaxed and slipped away from me, her beautiful black coat still shining. Her gleaming eyes dulled as her spirit left her.

She had arrived about nine years ago as a six week old bundle of fun and mischief. At the time my son Leo was toddling about and he used to kick her vigorously as she stole his football and snapped at his feet. They both thought it was great fun.

She tortured our then other dog, a placid golden Labrador we called Peig, who was like the conscience of the house. Any raised voices she headed for cover. Not so Hub. She was a fairly indisciplined critter, at first when you took her for a walk she wouldn’t come back and she used to drive me into paroxysms of frustration as she ran round the car refusing to get in, bucking and lepping.

Once we left her with the friend I got her from when we went on holiday. She ate the bottom of his creosoted gate over the course of our break.

Even up to her final few days with us she enjoyed the odd glorious rampage, sprinting hither and thither with abandon.

As the children grew up, Hub was part of the family. She always showed up in portraits of the family drawn in primary school, this four legged black shape in the foreground. That’s Hub, the various children would declare matter of factly explaining their latest piece.

She was so much part of the family, the furniture and the fun round these parts that we took her for granted. Not so the postman, or coal and oil delivery men. She would rip the post from the post box and in the process destroyed a few cheques I received from clients and at least one DVD.

She would station herself in the car if a door were left open and developed a penchant for chewing seatbelts. An expensive taste, I spent several hundreds replacing them. Any coat left in the car was liable to have a bite taken out of it. She had a go at my training cones too when she got the chance.

The children loved Hub. Every morning Sorcha’s first point of call was a visit to the living room for a hug.

Last week I took her to the vet to have what I thought would be a diagosis of some sort of infection. Instead she had developed dog diabetes and we took the difficult decision to have her put to sleep. In this home we shared, the strict regime required to treat a diabetic dog with absolute rigour would not be practical. I was heartsore as I took her for a final walk down to the beach.

But it is what you sign up to with a dog. The agreement was there from the moment I lifted her in her cardboard. By taking on the responsibility of this black Labrador pup we also committed to being there with her to reassure her and comfort her when the vet puts her to sleep. You can do no less.

This day last week I took our dog to the vet and had her put to sleep. I stayed with her and held her as the vet administered the lethal dose. Hub gradually relaxed and slipped away from me, her beautiful black coat still shining. Her gleaming eyes dulled as her spirit left her. It broke my heart.