Creeping across the pasture land. Got dirt on
the boots and a working hand. From the milk house
home to the auction call. These are the folks
standing strong and tall. Yeah, this is... Welcome
to the Bullvine Podcast, where we dive deep into
the stories that shape dairy farming. I'm your
host, and today we're bringing you something
different, something powerful. You're about to
experience a story that will challenge everything
you think you know about survival and agriculture.
It's about an empire built from nothing, destroyed
by forces beyond anyone's control, and rebuilt
into something nobody saw coming. This is the
Neponia story. The story of Yukio Kurosawatsu,
who arrived in Canada in the 1960s, unable to
speak English but with an extraordinary eye for
cattle. The story of his son Ken, who watched
40 years of breeding excellence get auctioned
off in a single morning. And the story of how
losing everything became the foundation for something
greater. Over the next 75 minutes, you'll stand
in auction barns with security guards at the
doors. You'll witness breeding decisions that
created all Canadian champions. You'll feel the
crushing weight of BSE closing borders overnight.
And you'll discover why your survival in dairy
might depend on building something completely
opposite to what you're doing now. This isn't
just history. This is a blueprint for navigating
the challenges you're facing right now in 2025.
Rising costs. Consolidation pressure. Market
volatility. The lessons from naponia aren't just
relevant, they're essential. So settle in, turn
up the volume, and prepare to experience one
of the most important stories in modern dairy
history. Because what happened to the Kurosawatsu
family isn't unique. It's happening right now
across North America to operations just like
yours. The only difference? They found a way
through. And by the end of this episode, you'll
understand how. This... is the bullvine podcast
you stand at the back of brubacher's auction
barn on a sweltering july morning in 2009 the
humidity makes your shirt stick to your back
before the first lot even enters the ring but
the heat isn't what's making you uncomfortable
it's the security guards you count them one two
three six guards positioned at every entrance
at a holstein dispersal sale You've been to hundreds
of these sails over the years, watched countless
operations fold, but you've never seen anything
like this. The tension in the air is thick enough
to cut with a knife. You recognize Ken Kurosawatsu
standing near the sail ring, his face a mask
of controlled emotion. His childhood friend Kevin
Hayden stays close, not here to bid, but to watch
Ken's back. The whispers in the crowd tell you
why. Creditors have made threats, real threats.
the kind that make a man higher security for
his own cattle sale. The auctioneer's voice booms
across the barn. Ladies and gentlemen, lot number
47, we have Penlo Georgette outside, one of the
finest Holstein cows to ever grace a show ring.
You watch her enter, magnificent even now, even
here. She's the crown jewel of what was once
a global Holstein empire. All -Canadian senior
three -year -old in 2004. Later, all -Canadian
mature cow in 2007. the kind of animal that makes
other breeders stop mid -conversation when she
walks past. But she's here, in this ring, about
to be sold to the highest bidder, along with
everything else Ken's father spent 40 years building.
You're witnessing the end of Naponia Holsteins,
an operation that exported genetics to Japan
and Brazil that produced three all -Canadian
bulls from a single cow that reportedly changed
veterinary law in Ontario through a landmark
malpractice case. An empire built by a man who
arrived in Canada unable to speak English, who
started with nothing but an extraordinary eye
for cattle. What you don't know yet, what nobody
in this barn knows, is that this isn't really
an ending. It's a beginning. The complete destruction
you're witnessing will become the foundation
for something nobody saw coming. Something that
challenges everything you thought you knew about
survival in agriculture. But to understand how
we got here, to understand why security guards
are necessary at a dairy cattle sale, you need
to go back. Back to 1968. Back to a barn in Ontario
where a young Japanese man who couldn't speak
a word of English was about to change the Holstein
industry forever. You're standing in a Thai stall
barn in southern Ontario in 1968. The sun hasn't
come up yet, but you're already on your third
cup of coffee. watching your breath fog in the
cold morning air. The radio in the milk house
crackles with news about Vietnam, about Pierre
Trudeau's rise to power, about social upheaval
in cities you'll probably never visit. But here
in the barn, life moves to different rhythms.
The twice -daily milking. The seasonal cycles
of planting and harvest. The careful breeding
decisions that won't show results for three years.
You're part of something bigger happening in
Ontario agriculture right now, though you might
not fully realize it yet. This province is becoming
the epicenter of the global Holstein revolution.
Down the road, Romandale Farms under Murray Hunt
and Dave Houck is setting production records
that seem impossible. Cows pushing past 20 ,000
pounds of milk in a lactation when 12 ,000 was
considered exceptional just a decade ago. The
Roman brothers, Stephen and George, are pouring
uranium mining money into Holstein Genetics,
transforming the industry. The infrastructure
is transforming too. United Breeders, which will
later become part of Gencor and eventually EastGen,
is expanding their artificial insemination services
throughout Ontario. You remember when AI was
considered radical, almost unnatural. Now, frozen
semen from proven bulls is changing bloodlines
faster than anyone imagined possible. You can
breed your cow to a bull that's been dead for
five years, to genetics from halfway around the
world. Brubacher's has become a major venue for
selling registered cattle in the Waterloo region.
It's not like the old country auctions where
you sold your cull cows for beef money. These
are sophisticated sales, designed specifically
for registered cattle, pulling buyers from across
North America, even overseas. You flip through
the latest Holstein journal while waiting for
the milk truck. The pages are full of cows with
names like Romandale, Reflection Sovereign, Hanover
Hill Barb, Glenridge, Citation Roxy. These aren't
just animals anymore. They're genetic investments
worth more than your grandfather's entire farm.
The money flowing into registered Holsteins is
staggering. You hear stories, some verified,
some exaggerated, of single cows selling for
tens of thousands of dollars, enough to buy multiple
farms in your county. Japanese buyers are showing
up at sales with significant capital. Brazilian
delegations tour farms looking for genetics to
transform their tropical dairy industry. But
there's another change happening that you sense
more than see. The old way of farming, the family
operation passed down through generations, the
diversified farm with a bit of everything, it's
giving way to something else. Specialization.
Scale. Science. You're tracking feed conversions
now, calculating the protein percentage needed
for optimal production. You know your cow's genetic
indexes, their predicted transmitting abilities.
The margin for error keeps shrinking. One wrong
breeding decision, one bad investment in the
wrong bloodline, and you could be finished. It's
into this world of opportunity and risk that
a wave of new immigrants is arriving. Post -war
Canada needs workers. needs farmers, needs people
willing to do the jobs that prosperity has made
less attractive to those born here. The Immigration
Act of 1967 just introduced a points system.
Education, language skills, job prospects. But
there's still room for those with specialized
skills, even if they can't speak English. And
in the barn at 5 a .m., when you're pulling a
calf or treating mastitis, language barriers
matter less than knowing what you're doing. Japanese
immigration to Canada has been complicated since
the war. The internment camps, the dispersal
policy that scattered Japanese Canadians across
the country, the gradual rehabilitation. But
by 1967, things are changing. Japan's economy
is booming. They call it the economic miracle.
And Japanese businesses are looking for opportunities
abroad. Some come as students, some as technical
workers, and some... like the man whose story
you're about to experience, come with skills
that transcend language, an ability to see potential
in an animal that others miss, to develop that
potential through management and breeding, to
build something from nothing. You don't know
it yet, standing in your barn this morning in
1968, but the registered Holstein business is
about to become as volatile as any commodity
market. The same forces that are creating millionaires
will destroy others. Export markets will open
and slam shut. Diseases will emerge that nobody's
heard of yet. Partnerships will form and explode.
And for one family, the journey from nothing
to empire to complete destruction will become
a roadmap for survival that challenges everything
you think you know about staying in business.
You're lying in a narrow bunk on a cargo ship.
somewhere in the Pacific Ocean in the mid -1960s.
The engines throb through the metal walls, a
constant vibration that's become part of your
body's rhythm after two weeks at sea. You're
in your 20s, and you're leaving everything you've
ever known. Your name is Yukio Kurosawatsu, though
soon enough, Canadian farmers will struggle to
pronounce it, will shorten it to yuk, or just
point when they need you. You don't mind. Where
you're going. Your name matters less than what
you can do. You think about the farm you left
behind in Japan, north of Tokyo. Generations
of farming, your father's weathered hands teaching
you to read the weather, to understand the soil.
But Japan is changing. The economy is modernizing,
industrializing. Small farms like yours are being
swallowed by development. Your brothers will
stay, will fight to keep the land. But you've
chosen a different path. You've heard about Canada
from others who've gone before. Vast spaces.
Opportunity. Farms bigger than entire villages
back home. And cattle. Not the Wagyu beef cattle
of Japan, but dairy cattle. Holsteins. Black
and white machines that produce rivers of milk.
You know cattle. Not Holsteins specifically,
but you understand animals in a way that goes
beyond language. It's in how they move, how they
stand, the look in their eyes. Your grandfather
taught you this. made you sit silent in the barn
for hours, just watching, learning to see what
others miss. The immigration officer in Toronto
speaks slowly, but it doesn't help. You understand
maybe one word in ten. You show him your papers,
the address of the farm where you have work arranged.
He stamps something, points toward a door. You
bow, a habit that will take years to break. Your
first jobs are tough, vegetable farms, manual
labor, whatever you can find. You're working
alongside other immigrants, Portuguese, Italian,
Caribbean. The work is brutal, bent over in the
fields from dawn to dusk. Your back screams,
your hands blister and callous, but you save
every penny, learning English from children's
books you find in church donation bins. After
a few years of hard work, you hear about opportunities
on dairy farms. The Agro brothers, Angelo and
Frank, need someone reliable. Someone who won't
complain about the hours, the smell, the endless
routine of twice -daily milking. You're standing
in Angelo Agro's barn for what feels like a job
interview, though it's more of an assessment.
He's a big man, loud, used to being obeyed. He
shows you around, talking fast in English you
can barely follow, but you understand the important
parts. These are good cows. Very good cows. Registered
Holsteins with papers going back generations.
You watch how Angelo handles them. Efficient
but rough, focused on production. You see a heifer
in the corner, her udder uneven, her front legs
slightly out of position. Without thinking, you
walk over, run your hands along her back, down
her legs. You see potential where Angelo sees
a problem. Angelo watches you work for a few
minutes, then laughs, a booming sound that echoes
off the barn walls. According to those who knew
him, he had a way of testing new workers, teasing
them constantly. Him no good, him no good, he'd
reportedly say, poking workers in the chest whenever
they made mistakes. But there was affection in
it when he saw talent. The work is hard but familiar.
You're up at 4 .30 in the barn by 5, milking,
feeding, cleaning. The other workers, local kids
mostly, complain constantly. The smell, the hours,
the pay. But for you, this is opportunity. You
study the cows obsessively. Not just their production
records, which Angelo tracks religiously, but
their confirmation, their movement, their breeding.
You borrow Holstein magazines from the milk house,
struggling through the English with a dictionary,
learning the bloodlines, sovereign, reflection,
citation. You're sitting in your boarding house
room in Guelph, counting money. After working
with the agros, you have several thousand dollars
saved. a significant sum by your standards, though
not nearly enough by Canadian farming standards.
You know you need more. You need a partner. That's
when you meet Tom Ikeda at a Japanese community
dinner. Tom's been in Canada for several years,
working at Shaver Poultry as a chick sexer. The
work involves sorting male from female chicks
at incredible speed, a specialized skill that
commands high wages. The work is destroying his
eyes. staring through magnifying glasses at thousands
of chicks every day. But the pay is extraordinary
for the era. You explain your vision to Tom in
Japanese, relief flooding through you at being
able to express complex ideas again. You've been
watching, learning. You know which bloodlines
are producing. You know which cows the established
breeders undervalue. With capital, with the right
animals, you could build something. Tom listens.
his eyes already strained behind thick glasses.
He knows his career has maybe a few more years
before his eyes give out completely. He needs
something else, something for the future. The
partnership terms are negotiated. Tom provides
the initial capital, you choose the cattle, and
manage operations. The exact financial arrangements,
like many business details from this era, remain
private between the parties involved. But already,
you're seeing further ahead than Tom realizes.
You're not just thinking about buying and selling
cattle. You're thinking about Japan, about the
growing wealth there, about the demand for Western
agricultural genetics. You're thinking about
Brazil, where Japanese immigrants have built
successful farming operations. You're thinking
about building something that will last beyond
you, something your sons, if you ever have sons,
can inherit. An empire built not on land, which
can be taken away, but on knowledge and genetics.
which travel across oceans. What you don't know
yet, standing in that boarding house room with
your savings and your dreams, is that your inability
to speak English, what everyone sees as your
greatest weakness, will become a strength. It
will force you to communicate through your work,
through results that speak louder than words.
It will make you listen more carefully, observe
more closely. And when the partnerships fail,
when the markets collapse, When everything you
build seems to crumble, that same silence will
teach your son lessons about resilience that
no amount of talking could convey. You're sitting
in lawyer Ted Morwick's office in downtown Guelph,
Tom Ikeda beside you. Morwick is explaining the
partnership agreement, speaking slowly, using
simple words when he looks at you. You understand
more than he thinks, but you let Tom translate
anyway. The structure is straightforward, a registered
partnership. Tom provides the initial capital
investment. You contribute your expertise and
labor. All decisions require both signatures,
but practically speaking, Tom handles the money,
you handle the cattle. You sign your name carefully
in English letters, still awkward after several
years in Canada, but your signature on a cattle
registration paper, that's what matters. Your
first major purchase comes soon after. The Agros
are selling Agroacres Royal Master Nell. She's
nothing special to look at. Decent mammary system,
but weak fore -utter attachments, legs that toe
out slightly. Angelo practically dismisses her
value when you express interest. You see what
Angelo doesn't, or maybe what he doesn't have
time to develop. Nell has the bloodlines, generations
of very good and excellent dams. More importantly,
she has the frame to carry improvement. With
the right management, the right feeding program,
you can transform her. You move Nell to a rented
facility outside Guelph, just a few stalls in
an old bank barn, but it's yours to manage. You
start what you call a real udder job on her.
Specific feeding to tighten those attachments.
Careful trimming to correct her stance. Daily
attention to improve her condition. Tom visits
after the first week. He looks at the time you're
spending on one cow and shakes his head. In the
time you've spent on Nell, he's processed thousands
of chicks at the hatchery. earning significant
wages. You try to explain. This isn't about immediate
milk production. It's about genetic potential,
about what her offspring could become. But Tom's
focus is on immediate returns. The breeding decision
for Nell takes you weeks to finalize. You study
every available bull, comparing genetic indexes,
looking at daughter performance. Finally, you
settle on Glenvale Ideal Fury Reflector. He's
not the highest indexing bull, not the most popular,
but his strengths complement Nell's weaknesses
perfectly. Nine months later, you're pulling
Nell's calf at 2 a .m. in March, the barn so
cold your breath fogs as you work. It's a bull
calf, strong, perfectly marked. Within weeks,
you know you have something special. The way
he moves, his natural width, the straightness
of his legs, everything Nell lacked, this calf
has. A buyer from Columbia sees the calf at a
few months old. The offer is substantial. Thousands
of dollars for an animal from a cow others had
dismissed. After expenses, you've made more than
many farmers make in a year. But you're already
thinking ahead. If Nell can produce this quality
to Fury once, she can do it again. You breed
her back immediately. Same mating. The problems
with Tom start small. He arrives at the barn
unannounced, wanting to check on his investment.
You're in the middle of treating a heifer for
mastitis, hands covered in antiseptic, and Tom's
asking about feed costs, about why you need such
expensive mineral supplements. You try to explain
through gestures and broken English that cheap
feed makes cheap cattle, that the difference
between good and great is often just management.
But Tom's looking at spreadsheets, at daily costs
to maintain animals. The partnership dissolution
comes approximately one year after it started.
You're sitting at Tom's kitchen table, Ted Morwick
between you with papers spread out. Tom's made
his decision. He wants out. The long hours at
the hatchery are taking their toll, his eyesight
is deteriorating, and watching his investment
in cattle he doesn't understand is adding stress
he doesn't need. Morwick explains the terms.
Tom recovers his initial investment with interest.
You keep the cattle and can continue using the
business name. There's a non -compete clause.
Neither can operate a similar business within
the region for several years. Tom suddenly looks
concerned. Does this mean I can never own another
cow? According to accounts of the meeting, Morwick
laughed gently. Tom, you can get around that.
Just put them in your wife's name. All three
of you laugh, but you're already thinking ahead.
You have several good females now, including
Nell, who's produced exceptional offspring to
Fury. You have capital in the bank, no partner
to answer to. What follows is a streak of breeding
success that establishes your reputation. Nell's
subsequent fury sons reportedly all achieve significant
success, with three becoming all -Canadian -nominated
bulls, a remarkable achievement from a single
cow. You acquire Picklin Texel Ellen at a major
sale, investing heavily. But Ellen bred to leading
sires produces exceptional offspring, daughters
that classify excellent and very good, each one
worth more than you paid for the dam. Claude
Pickett at Pickett Farms reportedly gives you
Spruce Loft Triune Doreen. She's been a problem
breeder, hasn't settled in years. But you see
something in her confirmation, in her potential.
You adjust her nutrition, change her housing,
reduce her stress. Months later, Doreen calves
successfully. She classifies excellent at her
next scoring. Her daughters also go excellent.
When Claude visits your barn and sees what you've
accomplished, he's amazed at the transformation.
You want to explain that it's not one thing.
It's everything. The feed mixed precisely, the
stall bedded a specific way, the calm environment
you maintain, the way you speak to them in Japanese,
the same low tones your grandfather used with
cattle. But your English isn't sufficient for
such philosophy, so you just smile and shrug.
By 1975, your reputation has spread beyond Ontario.
You receive calls through translators. Japanese
organizations want Canadian genetics. They've
heard about a Japanese man in Canada who understands
both markets. Can you help? This is what you've
been building toward without fully knowing it.
You understand what Japanese buyers want. Not
just high indexes or show winners, but cattle
with specific qualities that will work in Japan's
intensive management systems. Moderate size.
Good feet and legs for concrete. Efficient feed
conversion. Your first major shipments to Japan
bring significant profits. more than you made
in your first years combined. But already you're
seeing further ahead. Brazil, Australia, Mexico.
The world wants Canadian Holstein genetics, and
you're positioned perfectly to provide them.
You incorporate as Nipponia Livestock Exports.
The name is important. Nipponia is the Latin
name for the Japanese crested ibis, a bird that
was once common but is now nearly extinct. You're
thinking about heritage, about preservation.
about building something that will outlast you.
What you don't see yet, focused on your breeding
charts and export documents, is that success
in agriculture is like walking on ice. It looks
solid, supports your weight, carries you forward,
but underneath, currents are moving, cracks are
forming, and when it breaks, it breaks all at
once. You're reading The Ontario Farmer at your
kitchen table in 1975. The headlines tell a story
of transformation and risk. Japanese investment
in Canadian agriculture reaches record high.
Brazilian delegation tours Ontario farms. Holstein
exports drive provincial agricultural growth.
But there are other stories buried in the back
pages. Three more farms lost to foreclosure in
Wellington County. Veterinary malpractice suits
face uphill battle. Rising interest rates squeeze
dairy margins. The registered Holstein business
in the mid -1970s is experiencing unprecedented
growth. You attend the Royal Winter Fair and
watch single cows sell for astronomical sums,
some verified at tens of thousands, others rumored
to reach six figures. Not for milk production.
Many of these animals never produce enough milk
to pay for their feed, but for their genetics,
their potential, their papers. Japanese buyers
arrive with significant capital. They don't always
haggle. They identify what they want and pay
what's necessary. The Brazilians are more strategic,
forming partnerships with Canadian breeders,
learning the business before making major investments.
You're part of this boom, but you also see its
fragility. At regional fairs, you watch farmers
you know bid beyond their means on heifers they
can't afford, certain they can resell to international
buyers for double. When borders temporarily close
due to disease scares or trade disputes, you
see their farm equipment at auction sales months
later. The veterinary situation in Ontario agriculture
is complex. The error -in -judgment legal doctrine
established in Canadian law creates significant
challenges for farmers seeking recourse for veterinary
mistakes. As long as a veterinarian can demonstrate
they made a reasonable decision under the circumstances,
liability is limited. You hear accounts in the
barn, veterinarians arriving unprepared, mistakes
that cost farmers valuable genetics. But successful
legal action is rare. The legal precedents favor
professional judgment, even when outcomes are
catastrophic. The global agricultural trade in
the late 1970s is transforming rapidly. The European
Economic Community is subsidizing dairy production,
affecting world markets. The United States is
using agricultural exports as diplomatic leverage.
restricting shipments based on political considerations.
New diseases are emerging and spreading through
global trade. John's disease, once rare in Canada,
is appearing more frequently. Bovine leucosis
spreads through various vectors. The more connected
the global cattle trade becomes, the more vulnerable
everyone becomes to distant problems. You're
reading about a new disease in England called
bovine spongiform encephalopathy . though most
call it mad cow disease. It seems like a distant
problem, something that couldn't affect North
America. The disease is linked to feeding practices,
specifically feeding rendered animal products
back to cattle, a practice that exists in various
forms across the industry. By 1980, interest
rates in Canada reach unprecedented levels, approaching
20 % and higher. You calculate what that means
for a farmer carrying $200 ,000 in debt. $40
,000 a year just in interest before paying back
any principal. That's more than many dairy operations
gross in a year. The farms that survive are the
ones that adapted early, diversified, built export
markets, kept debt manageable. But for every
success story, there are multiple failures that
don't make headlines. The auction notices in
the farm papers tell the real story. Farm sales
every week, all year long. Immigration patterns
are shifting too. The points system now favors
educated English -speaking immigrants, the kind
of agricultural workers who built Ontario's farming
sector. People arriving with strong backs and
specific skills but limited English face more
barriers. But there are still pathways. Family
reunification, investor visas, business partnerships.
If you have capital, if you have family already
here, if you have specialized skills, Doors still
open. You're thinking about this because you're
thinking about the future, about succession,
and that about what happens to Naponia when you're
gone. The world is speeding up, becoming more
connected and more fragile simultaneously. A
disease outbreak in one country affects prices
globally. A political change in Brazil stops
payment on contracts in Ontario. Economic shifts
trigger cascades that affect bloodline values
worldwide. Standing in your barn in 1985, successful
beyond anything you imagined when you arrived
20 years ago, you make a decision that many will
question. You're going to start building a Wagyu
herd, Japanese beef cattle, the opposite of everything
that's made you successful. When people ask why,
you struggle to explain in your still imperfect
English. But the truth is something you feel
more than know, that success in agriculture isn't
about riding trends. but about being ready when
trends change. And they always change. You're
standing in your calving pen at 3 a .m., watching
a valuable bull calf struggle to breathe. He's
been off feed for two days, running a fever you
can't break. This calf represents months of planning,
significant investment in breeding fees, and
potentially substantial future income. The veterinarian
arrives within the hour. He examines the calf,
prescribes a drench, Mineral oil with antibiotics,
standard treatment for digestive issues. You
hold the calf's head while he slides the tube
down. Something goes wrong immediately. The calf
starts gasping, foam coming from his nostrils.
The tube has gone into the lungs instead of the
stomach. Within minutes, your valuable bull calf
is dead on the straw. The vet packs his equipment
quickly, muttering about difficult cases, about
how these things happen. He's out the door before
you've fully processed what just occurred. You're
in Ted Morwick's office the next morning. You
want to sue. This wasn't a difficult case. It
was an error, a mistake that cost you significantly.
Morwick explains the legal reality through careful
words. The error in judgment doctrine in Canadian
law protects veterinarians when they make decisions
under pressure. As long as they can claim reasonable
professional judgment, liability is extremely
difficult to prove. There are precedents, cases
where even prominent farms couldn't win despite
clear mistakes. You feel rage building in your
chest, the kind that makes your vision narrow.
In Japan, such errors would bring accountability.
But here, the system protects the professionals,
not the farmers. Lightning strikes twice. You've
flushed your best donor cow to round oak rag
apple elevation, one of the most sought -after
bulls in the industry. Three successful embryo
transfers, three recipients carrying potential
champion calves. Combined potential value, enormous.
The first two calvings go perfectly, heifer calves,
both exceptional, but the third recipient is
struggling. The calf is positioned wrong, needs
to be turned or cut out. You call a veterinarian
from the same practice. You're specific in your
instructions, speaking carefully in your improving
English. If trouble, you cut. No pulling. Cut
right away. The vet arrives and starts pulling.
Five minutes pass. Ten. The heifer is exhausted.
The calf isn't moving. You drop the rope, step
back. Cut now, you say firmly. Keep pulling,
the vet insists. Twenty minutes later, the calf
is dead. The vet looks at his boots, packs his
equipment. According to the account that would
later become part of legal proceedings, when
asked why he didn't perform the cesarean as instructed,
his response was shocking, I forgot my knife.
This time, Morwick sees a different legal angle.
Forgetting essential equipment isn't an error
in judgment, it's professional negligence. A
veterinarian arriving unprepared for a procedure
he was specifically called to perform represents
a failure of basic professional standards. The
case proceeds. reportedly becoming one of the
first successful veterinary malpractice suits
in Ontario. The precedent it sets will affect
how veterinarians prepare for calls, ensuring
they arrive with necessary equipment for anticipated
procedures. By the 1980s, your reputation has
crossed oceans. Japanese agricultural organizations
are buying Canadian genetics through middlemen
who mark up prices significantly. They hear about
you. A Japanese man in Canada who understands
both markets, who can bridge the cultural and
technical gaps. The contracts start small but
grow quickly. Hokkaido Livestock Improvement
Association, Zenno, major Japanese dairy cooperatives.
They want specific genetics, not just high -indexing
animals, but cattle suited to Japan's intensive
management systems. Brazil comes next. You're
invited on a trade mission with government officials,
meeting Brazilian entrepreneurs with significant
capital. They're different from the Japanese
buyers, more interested in volume, in transforming
their entire national herd quickly. You're flying
constantly now, Tokyo one week, Sao Paulo the
next, back to Toronto for sales. Your English
has improved dramatically through necessity,
though you still prefer to let your cattle speak
for you. You purchased the old Weiner farm on
Highway 6, expanding from rented facilities to
owned land. You incorporate as Nipponia livestock
exports leated, handling the increasingly complex
international transactions. But while everyone
watches you succeed in Holsteins, you're quietly
starting something else. In a separate barn,
away from the main operation, you're building
a wagyu herd. Japanese beef cattle. When people
ask why, you struggle to explain. It's not about
immediate profit. It's about what you sense coming.
Market saturation. disease risks the fragility
of depending on one market you're sitting at
your kitchen table watching your sons ken and
his brother finish their homework they switch
effortlessly between japanese at home and perfect
english everywhere else they're canadian kids
who happen to have a japanese father who built
a cattle empire ken is the older one more serious
already spending every spare moment in the barn
he has your eye for cattle that instinctive understanding
of animal potential. But he also has something
you lack, the ability to navigate Canadian business
culture, to speak the language of banks and lawyers
fluently. You think about succession constantly
now. In Japan, the eldest son inherits everything,
continues the family business without question.
But this is Canada. Your sons have choices. They
could go to university, become doctors or engineers,
leave farming entirely. You've never pushed them
toward the cattle business, but Ken gravitates
to it naturally. By high school, he's showing
cattle at local fairs, winning championships.
He understands not just the animals, but the
theater of it, how to present them, how to catch
a judge's eye. You watch Ken work and see yourself,
but also something more. He can do what you never
could, tell the story of the cattle, explain
their value in words that Canadian buyers understand.
Where you communicate through results, Ken communicates
through personality, through connections. The
business is changing too. It's no longer just
about having good cattle. It's about marketing,
branding, social connections. The registered
Holstein business has become as much about relationships
as genetics. Ken understands this instinctively.
You have conversations with Ken about the future,
mixing Japanese and English, concepts that don't
quite translate between cultures. You try to
explain wa, harmony, balance, and how it applies
to business. Never extend too far. Never depend
on one market. Always have something in reserve.
Ken listens, but also challenges. He sees opportunities
you're cautious about. Bigger partnerships. Larger
shipments. More debt to finance expansion. It's
the Canadian way. Leverage everything. Grow or
die. You're proud of what you've built, but also
fearful. You've seen too many operations destroyed
by single events. A disease outbreak, a market
closure, a partnership gone wrong. The higher
you climb, the further you can fall. The wog
you heard you're building, Ken doesn't fully
understand it yet. To him, it seems like a distraction
from the profitable Holstein business. But you're
not building it for today. You're building it
for a crisis you can feel coming, but can't quite
name. You spend evenings teaching Ken the aspects
of the business that can't be learned in Barnes.
how to read between the lines of a contract,
how to sense when a partner is becoming unreliable,
how to know when to walk away from a deal, even
when it looks profitable. Most importantly, you
try to teach him about resilience. Not the Canadian
concept of bouncing back, but the Japanese concept
of bending without breaking, adapting completely
if necessary, being willing to become something
entirely different if survival requires it. You're
Ken now. sitting in the farm office when the
news breaks. A single cow in Alberta has tested
positive for BSE , mad cow disease. The announcer's
voice is carefully controlled, but you hear the
underlying panic. Within hours, the borders slam
shut. The United States closes immediately. Japan
follows. Every country that imports Canadian
beef and dairy genetics suddenly views anything
from Canada as contaminated. Your phone starts
ringing and doesn't stop. Brazilian buyers canceling
contracts. Japanese partners expressing regret
but suspending all shipments. You have $2 million
worth of cattle assembled for export, eating
$50 a day per head and feed, with nowhere to
go. Your father is in Japan, having semi -retired
to run a small ice cream shop, leaving you to
manage the Canadian operation. You call him,
trying to keep the panic out of your voice. His
response is calm, almost serene. This is why
we have Wagyu. But first, survive today. You
need a plan immediately. The cattle can't just
sit here burning through money. You need to generate
cash flow, maintain the genetics, keep the operation
alive until borders reopen. Giovanni Lucignano
enters your life at exactly the wrong moment.
Or maybe the right one, depending on how you
look at it. He's a Brazilian with Italian charm.
expensive suits, and a wealthy wife backing his
agricultural investments. He wants to partner.
He provides capital to maintain the operation.
You provide expertise and cattle. The terms aren't
ideal, but you're hemorrhaging money. Every day
the borders stay closed costs thousands. You
sign the partnership agreement, believing it's
temporary, just until BSE blows over. You develop
a strategy. If you can't export cattle, make
them so famous that buyers will find a way to
come to you when borders reopen. You partner
with Barclay Phoenix, one of the best show technicians
in North America. Together, you'll dominate every
major show, create such demand that geography
becomes irrelevant. The 2004 show season is a
triumph. At the Royal Winter Fair, you're standing
in the ring with Penlo Georgette outside as she's
named all -Canadian senior three -year -old.
The crowd erupts. Eight Nipponia animals receive
all Canadian nominations. You're the toast of
the Holstein world. But standing there in the
spotlight, holding the banner, you can't shake
the feeling that this is all theater. The glory
doesn't pay bills. The trophies don't service
debt. Every month, the financial pressure builds.
By 2006, the debt has passed $500 ,000. Luciano
keeps injecting capital, but his demands grow.
He wants more control. more say in breeding decisions.
His wife's family money comes with strings. They
want to see returns, not ribbons. You organize
the Hanover Hill legacy sale, borrowing the prestige
of that legendary farm name. It's brilliant marketing.
You're not having a crisis sale. You're hosting
a prestigious event. Gross receipts hit $1 .35
million, but after commissions, expenses, and
debt service, you're still underwater. Then Luzignano's
wife files for divorce. The money tap shuts off
instantly. Luzignano himself is scrambling, trying
to save what he can from the marriage dissolution.
Your operating capital evaporates overnight.
You're in your lawyer's office, preparing for
the inevitable. Complete dispersal. Everything
must go. The lawyer explains your options, all
of them bad. Creditors are circling. Some have
made threats. Not just legal threats, but physical
ones. You hire security for the sale. Six guards
stationed at every entrance to Brubacher's. You
ask Kevin Hayden, your childhood friend, to stay
close during the sale. Not as a buyer, but as
protection. The night before the sale, you move
the most valuable animals to a separate location.
They'll be trucked in at the last minute, minimizing
the chance for creditors to interfere. You're
playing chess while everyone else thinks it's
checkers. The morning of the sale, you're standing
in the barn at 4 a .m. alone with the cattle
one last time. Penlo Georgette outside stands
in her stall, magnificent even now. She's classified
EX96, one of the highest scores ever given. All
-Canadian senior three -year -old in 2004, All
-Canadian mature cow in 2007. She represents
everything your father built, everything you
tried to continue. You run your hand along her
back, the way your father taught you. You can
feel her quality. her potential still untapped.
She should be founding a dynasty, not ending
one. The sale is surreal. You're standing there
watching your life's work parade through the
ring. Lot after lot, bloodlines your father developed
over 40 years, dispersing to the four winds.
Lushinano appears, trying to buy back Georgette
and her daughter. Your lawyer intercepts. There
are leans on those animals. The confrontation
gets heated. Lushinano storms out, gets in his
limousine, leaves forever. When Georgette sells,
you feel something break inside you. Not your
spirit. Something else. Maybe it's acceptance.
Maybe it's relief. The empire is gone. Total
proceeds, $250 ,000. After auction costs, legal
fees, and paying the most aggressive creditors,
you're left with $53 ,000. 40 years of building,
decades of genetics, a lifetime of expertise,
reduced to what a new pickup truck costs. That
evening, you're in the empty barn. The silence
is deafening. No cattle lowing. No machinery
humming. Just empty stalls and memories. Kevin
Hayden finds you there. He doesn't say much.
Doesn't need to. He's been there through it all.
The showing days. The glory. The collapse. Now
the ending. What now? He finally asks. You think
about your father's Wagyu herd, still intact,
separate from the Holstein disaster. You think
about his words, be willing to become something
entirely different if survival requires it. You're
standing in a different barn now. Same farm and
puslinch, but everything else has changed. Instead
of 50 Holstein dairy cows, you have 12 Wagyu
cattle. Instead of bulk tanks and milking equipment,
you have carefully controlled feeding programs
and meticulous record keeping. The math is completely
different. A Holstein might produce $2 ,000 in
milk per year. A single Wagyu carcass, properly
raised and marketed, can bring $10 ,000 or more.
Low volume, high value. The opposite of everything
you knew. You spend four years in Japan, learning
from masters who've raised Wagyu for generations.
It's not just about genetics. It's about a philosophy.
The feeding program that takes 30 months instead
of 18. The stress -free environment. The attention
to marbling that borders on obsession. Kevin
Hayden becomes your partner. The same friend
who stood guard during the dispersal now helps
build something new. He handles the business
side while you focus on the cattle. It's a partnership
built on trust earned through crisis. The market
development is slow, deliberate. You can't compete
with commodity beef. You don't try. Instead,
you tell a story about heritage, craftsmanship,
the Japanese attention to detail applied in Canadian
conditions. High -end restaurants in Toronto
start calling. They want consistency, exclusivity,
story. You provide all three. The chef at a Yorkville
steakhouse tells you, your beef changed how he
thinks about his menu. Instead of offering dozens
of cuts, he features three, all from your farm,
each with its own story. The pricing seems insane
to anyone from the commodity world. Some cuts
reach $100 per pound retail, sometimes more.
But you're not selling meat, you're selling an
experience, a philosophy, a connection to something
authentic in an increasingly artificial world.
Customers start arriving at the farm, wanting
to see where their food comes from. Japanese
businessmen fly in specifically to taste authentic
wagyu raised outside Japan. Food writers begin
featuring your story, not as a tale of failure,
but of transformation. You think often about
the Holstein Empire, about what was lost, but
also about what was preserved. The knowledge,
the work ethic, the ability to read an animal,
these things survived the bankruptcy. traveled
from one species to another. Your father, now
in his 80s, visits from Japan. He walks through
the Wagyu barn slowly, examining each animal
with the same intensity he once applied to Holsteins.
He nods, says little, but you see approval in
his eyes. More importantly, you see validation
of his foresight, building the escape route before
the crisis, not after. You're back to being yourself
now, standing in a dairy barn in 2025. thinking
about the Kurosawatsu story. The parallels to
today are impossible to ignore. Consolidation
is accelerating. Farms that milked 100 cows now
milk 1 ,000 or go under. Environmental regulations
get stricter every year. Consumer preferences
shift faster than anyone can adapt. The same
forces that destroyed Naponia Holsteins are at
work today, just with different names. The partnership
dynamics between Ken and Luciano, you see them
playing out everywhere. Outside investors promising
capital, demanding control. Dairy farmers desperate
for cash flow signing agreements they don't fully
understand. The pattern repeats. It works until
it doesn't. And when it doesn't, the farmer loses
everything. The BSE crisis of 2003 has faded
from memory, but new crises keep coming. COVID
-19 shut down processing plants. Avian influenza
threatens to jump species. Climate volatility
destroys feed crops. Each crisis follows the
same pattern, sudden closure of markets, desperate
scrambling for alternatives, operations that
seemed solid crumbling overnight. Ken Kurosawatsu
now speaks at agricultural conferences, sharing
lessons learned. His message is consistent. Diversification
isn't about having multiple revenue streams in
the same industry. It's about building something
that operates on completely different principles
from your main business. The Wagyu operation
thrives precisely because it's everything the
Holstein business wasn't. Where Holsteins were
about volume, Wagyu is about scarcity. Where
Holsteins depended on export markets, Wagyu serves
local premium buyers. Where Holsteins required
massive infrastructure, Wagyu needs minimal facilities.
Agricultural educators study the Naponia case
as a textbook example of both success and failure.
The breeding program that produced three all
-Canadian bulls from one cow demonstrates the
value of expertise and patience. The collapse
shows how external shocks can destroy even excellent
operations. But the real lesson, the one that
keeps you awake at night, is about timing. Yukio
built his Wagyu herd in the 1990s, when the Holstein
business was booming. He created his escape route
when he didn't need it. By the time Ken needed
it, it was ready. How many current dairy operations
have their escape route planned? How many are
building their opposite model while their primary
business still functions? The answer, you know
from talking to producers across the country,
is almost none. You're back in your own barn,
5 a .m., October 2025. The morning routine is
identical to what it was in 1968. Cows need milking,
regardless of market conditions or global crises.
But everything else has changed. Your phone buzzes
with overnight market reports, milk futures down,
feed costs up, another processor announcing closure.
The margins that were tight are now non -existent.
You're doing everything right, efficient production,
quality premiums, cost control, and still barely
surviving. You think about the Kurosawatsu story,
about Yukio arriving in Canada, unable to speak
English but able to read cattle, about building
an empire from nothing, about losing it all,
about building something entirely different from
the ashes. The question that haunts you is simple.
What's your wagyu? What opposite model are you
building while your main operation still functions?
Because the lesson of naponia isn't about Holsteins
or wagyu. It's about recognizing that what makes
you successful today might be what destroys you
tomorrow. You finish morning milking, step outside
into the dawn light. Another day in dairy, but
with new understanding. The game isn't about
doing what you do better than everyone else.
It's about being ready to do something completely
different when the world changes. And the world
always changes. The Neponia story isn't really
about the past. It's about your future. About
decisions you'll make in the next six months
that will determine whether you're still farming
in five years. About building your escape route
now while you still can. Not when you need it.
Because when you need it, when your BSE moment
arrives, When your partnership fails, when your
market disappears, it's already too late. The
only question that matters is this. When your
moment comes, and it will come, will you be ready?
And there you have it. The Neponia story. From
Holstein Empire to complete collapse to Wagyu
redemption. But this isn't really about Holsteins
or Wagyu, is it? It's about recognizing when
the game has changed. It's about building your
escape route while you're still winning. not
when you're desperate. It's about understanding
that expertise trumps capital, that adaptability
beats stubbornness, and that sometimes, sometimes
losing everything is the only way to find something
better. If this story resonated with you, and
I suspect it did, take a moment to think about
your own operation. What's your opposite model?
What are you building that operates on completely
different principles from your main business?
Because as Yukio Kurosawatsu proved, the time
to build your lifeboat is before the ship starts
sinking. Thank you for joining us for this special,
long -form episode of the Bullvine Podcast. If
you found value in this story, please share it
with another dairy producer who needs to hear
it. Subscribe to the Bullvine Podcast wherever
you get your podcasts and visit us at www .thebullvine
.com for daily news, analysis, and insights for
progressive dairy producers. Remember, every
article, every podcast, every piece of content
we create is designed with one goal, helping
you navigate the challenges and opportunities
in modern dairy farming. I want to leave you
with this thought. Ken Kurosawatsu stood in Brubacher's
auction barn in 2009 watching everything disappear.
Today, he's selling Wagyu beef for over $100
per pound. Not because he rebuilt what was lost.
but because he built something entirely different.
The question isn't whether you'll face your BSE
moment, your partnership crisis, your market
collapse. The question is, will you be ready
when it comes? Until next time, this has been
the Bullvine Podcast. Keep breeding better cattle
and building better futures. Stay strong, stay
smart, and never stop adapting.