Dexters

Three years after I started my Dexter journey, it was mid October, 2019 and my farming world felt as though it was collapsing around me. After weeks of fighting an unknown illness and exhausting every option available, I was forced to make the devastating decision to put down my first cow. I was heartbroken. And just when I thought I had reached the lowest point imaginable, things took an even darker turn.

Only weeks earlier, Maggie—one of my most beloved milk cows—and I had quietly celebrated an extraordinary milestone: one full year in milk. For a Dexter cow, this was no small achievement. Most Dexter lactations last eight to nine months at best, but Maggie loved being a milk cow. By intentionally delaying her breeding to move her from a fall to a spring calving schedule, she was able to continue milking far longer than expected.

That high didn’t last.

Just one week later, Branna—one of my first fresheners—fell ill. I rushed her to the veterinarian at the very first hint that something was wrong, but despite every effort, she spiraled downhill with terrifying speed. After three on-farm veterinary visits, countless treatments, and test after test, I was left with the most painful decision a farmer can face. Two weeks after her first symptoms appeared, I remained by her side, heart aching, as we made the compassionate choice to let her go humanly. My husband loaded her body into our trailer and together we made the long journey to OSU vet school to have a necropsy done.

Exactly one week after Branna became sick, Maggie followed. The vet confirmed Maggie was pregnant and said, “Maybe we can help her survive long enough to calve.” But she was still five months away from her due date, and given her rapid rate of decline, that hope felt impossibly distant.

Both cows health deteriorated with terrifying speed. My head was spinning. The veterinarian had no clear answers and no way to stop whatever was happening. He believed Maggie’s illness was unrelated to Branna’s, but after a second physical exam—conducted one week after the first—he unofficially diagnosed Maggie with BLV (Bovine Leukemia Virus), a disease considered incurable and ultimately fatal. That diagnosis was based solely on physical examination; no blood test had yet been performed. And because Maggie was running a high fever, which is of course not impossible but it’s not typically associated with BLV, I questioned it. I had the vet pull blood and send it off for testing.

Maggie continued to decline at an alarming rate. A cow once described by my veterinarian as “really fat” became a shell of her former self. For ten long weeks, she hid in the woods, barely eating and shivered non stop running a persistent high fever. Twice a day, every day, I hauled food and water to her, desperate for her to take even a few bites. Some days she did. Many days she didn’t. Often, I simply sat beside her and cried.

I was utterly shattered. To say I was broken feels like an understatement. My animals mean everything to me, and suddenly I was watching not one, but two cows slip away while I stood helpless to stop it. I’m not someone who cries easily—certainly not in front of others—but this season reduced me to sobbing in my husband’s arms more times than I can count. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing them both in the same month.

There were two moments during those ten weeks when we made the painful decision that it might be time to let her go—made all the harder by the fact that she was pregnant. One of those days fell on my daughter’s birthday. The other was a Saturday night. Both times, Maggie survived the weekend, and then—something would change in her disposition so I postponed the call to the vet, clinging to whatever hope I could find.

Over time she’d rally just enough to make us pause. Two small steps forward, one giant step back. Her improvement was so slow it was almost imperceptible, leaving me wondering if it was real progress or simply my heart refusing to give up. She had lost more than 300 pounds and was so weak that she stumbled with every step. At one point, she even dropped to her knees, and I thought to myself, This is it—she won’t get up again. But Maggie is a fighter.

Eventually, Branna’s necropsy results came back. She had suffered from a massive infection affecting every organ in her body—including her heart. The necropsy took a month and cost me nearly $900 and they never could tell us how she got so sick. All tests for communicable diseases were negative. The vet was now certain Maggie had not been battling the same illness. Still, we had no explanation for what had caused either cow to become sick.

Then, ten weeks to the day after Maggie’s first symptoms appeared, her fever finally broke. That morning I walked into the living room and looked out toward the pasture, convinced I was still dreaming. There, in the open, stood Maggie—no longer hidden in the woods, but calmly eating from the hay bale. My legs gave out. I dropped to my knees and sobbed, overwhelmed by the sight of her standing there, triumphant—her battle finally won. It was the first milestone that brought tears of joy—and it wouldn’t be the last. Her recovery was slow, but steady. Each week, she grew a little stronger. Naturally, I assumed she had miscarried, yet at that moment, I was simply grateful she was alive. For the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to believe that the worst might finally be behind us.

The veterinarian later retracted the BLV diagnosis, and subsequent testing confirmed Maggie was negative. He admitted these were two of the strangest cases he’d seen in a very long time. We may never know what truly happened.

Then, a few months later, as I stood loving on Maggie, I saw it—distinct kicks in her belly. She was still pregnant! Or was it just wishful thinking?

My husband doubted it. After all, Maggie had stood at death’s door more than once. But I was so sure of what I had seen. Even so, I couldn’t help but wonder what condition that calf might be in after ten weeks of illness, high fever, and near starvation.

On Sunday, March 31st, at 7 p.m., Maggie didn’t come up with the rest of the herd for feeding. Worried, I went searching. I found her deep in the woods, standing over a very wet little red bull calf. Maggie—and her little miracle. I stood there as the sun set, tears streaming down my face, watching them together. When darkness crept in, I congratulated her, told her how much I loved her, and quietly walked away. I looked at my husband, smiled, and said, “Mags is back.”

For five long months, I cried more than I thought possible, prayed without ceasing, lost countless hours of sleep, and ridden an emotional roller coaster I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But through it all, God never forsook me, and He heard my prayers.

After everything Maggie had endured, this strong, healthy little bull calf was nothing short of a miracle. He deserved a name that reflected the gift he truly was. We chose Theodore—which means “Gift of God.”

P.S. As you can see in the photo, Maggie had fully regained the condition she lost. She is a survivor. Thank you, Jesus, for making Dexter cattle so remarkably hardy.

About the Author:

Kimberly Jepsen is the heart behind MooShine Ridge in Vinita, Oklahoma, where she and her husband, Kevin, have been raising dual-purpose Dexter cows since 2015. Their little farm store is a labor of love, offering Dexter beef, raw milk, and artisan cheeses made from their own cows. Kimberly has a deep passion for the Dexter breed and loves nothing more than sharing what she’s learned over the years—whether it’s guiding fellow farmers, helping newcomers discover the joys of small-scale farming, or simply introducing people to the rich, creamy flavors of her handcrafted cheeses. For her, farming isn’t just a business—it’s a way to nurture animals, the land, and the community she cares about. https://mooshineridge.com/