Creeping over fields of green Remembering the
faces The moments unseen The hands that built
a dynasty The vision in their eyes Echoes in
the auction bar Beneath an endless sky This is
the bull buy Turn the bar Welcome to the Bullvine
Podcast, where the untold stories of dairy farming
come to life. Today we're diving deep into one
of the most controversial and consequential stories
in agricultural history. This is a podcast for
dairy farmers, by dairy farmers, and about the
decisions that shape our industry. We don't just
report the news. We live it. Breathe it. and
understand what it means when you're standing
in a barn at 4 a .m. making choices that will
echo through generations. Today's episode, Bell's
Paradox, the worst best bull in Holstein history.
Over the next 90 minutes, you'll experience the
story of Carlin M. Ivanhoe Bell through the eyes
of those who lived it. You'll stand in auction
barns in 1971, feel the pressure of breeding
decisions in the 1980s, and discover how one
bull's genetics became both a blessing and a
curse that still affects every Holstein cow milked
today. This isn't just history. It's a warning,
a lesson, and a mirror reflecting the choices
we continue to make in pursuit of progress. So
settle in whether you're in your truck heading
to check cows, in your office doing paperwork,
or taking a rare moment of rest. This is your
story, told your way. Let's begin. You stand
in your milking parlor at 4 .47 a .m. on a Tuesday
morning in late March 1999. The familiar rhythm
of the vacuum pumps fills the pre -dawn darkness.
Steam rises from the backs of your Holsteins
as they file into their stalls. Everything seems
normal, routine, safe. But in 12 minutes, your
phone will ring. The veterinarian's voice on
the other end will be careful. Measured, the
tone vets use when they're about to deliver news
that changes everything. Your best cow, the one
whose bloodline you've built your entire breeding
program around for 15 years, has just lost another
calf. Not to dystocia, not to infection, to something
called complex vertebral malformation, a genetic
defect you've never heard of, carried by a bull
who's been dead for nine years. That bull's name
is Carlin M. Ivanhoe Bell. His frozen semen sits
in tanks in nearly every AI facility in the world.
His genetics flow through millions of Holstein
cows across six continents. He revolutionized
milk production, made fortunes for dairy farmers
from Wisconsin to New Zealand, and fundamentally
altered what it means to be a Holstein cow. He
also carried two lethal genetic diseases that
would kill countless calves, destroy breeding
programs, and cost the global dairy industry
hundreds of millions of dollars. You don't know
it yet, standing here in your parlor with that
phone about to ring, but you're about to discover
that your entire herd, every cow you milk, every
heifer you're raising, every calf in your hutches,
carries the legacy of a Kansas bull whose story
begins 28 years earlier, on a September morning
in 1971. when everything that would lead to this
moment started with a decision that seemed insignificant
at the time. You reach for the receiver. To understand
how you got here, you need to travel back to
September 1971. You're standing in an auction
barn in rural Oklahoma, but you're not really
here. You're John Carlin, and you're doing a
favor for a friend. The smell of cattle and sawdust
fills your nostrils. Your boots stick slightly
to the concrete floor. still damp from the morning
hosing. Around you, other farmers lean against
the metal rails, studying sale catalogs, making
notes in margins. You didn't plan to buy anything
today. You've driven down from Kansas with a
cattle trailer you'd just picked up, planning
only to read pedigrees for Bob Braswell's Band
W dispersal sale. It's the kind of favor dairy
farmers do for each other, time given freely
because next month, next year, you might be the
one needing help. But the dairy industry you're
part of in 1971 stands at a crossroads, though
you can't fully see it yet. The Holstein breed
is changing rapidly. Production is becoming everything.
The days of the family cow giving enough milk
for local delivery routes are ending. Larger
dairies are emerging. Bulk tanks are replacing
milk cans. The economics are shifting beneath
your feet like sand. You flip through the sale
catalog one more time. Across the country, Artificial
insemination is revolutionizing dairy breeding.
No longer do you need to keep a dangerous bull
on your farm. Now, for the price of a tank of
semen, you can access the genetics of the best
bulls in the world. Companies like Select Sires,
American Breeders Service, and Cemex are competing
fiercely for the next great sire. The pressure
is building throughout the industry. Milk prices
haven't kept pace with rising costs. Feed prices
fluctuate wildly. The government's price support
system feels increasingly unstable. You need
cows that can produce more milk on less feed,
cows that can survive in larger herds with less
individual attention, cows that can generate
enough income to cover the loan payments that
keep you awake at night. Standing here in 1971,
you're also part of a larger agricultural transformation.
Earl Butts has just become Secretary of Agriculture.
preaching his gospel of get big or get out. Farms
are consolidating. Your neighbors are either
expanding or selling out. The 80 -acre dairy
that supported your grandfather's family won't
support yours. You need 300 cows where he needed
30. You need production levels he couldn't have
imagined. The Holstein breed itself is concentrating
around a handful of influential sires. Round
oak rag apple elevation. born just six years
ago in 1965, is reshaping the breed with his
incredible type transmission. Pawnee farm Arlinda
chief, though long dead, still dominates pedigrees.
These bulls and their sons are creating a genetic
bottleneck that worries some geneticists but
seems like progress to most farmers. You watch
as the sail crew brings the first animal into
the ring. It's an 11 -month -old heifer. Ban
W. Hilo Cremel. Something about her catches your
eye. Maybe it's her straight top line, maybe
it's the way she moves, or maybe it's simply
the fact that Braswell chose to lead his dispersal
with her. In the cattle business, you learn to
read the subtle signals. When someone's dispersing
their entire herd and they put one animal first,
that tells you something. You feel your hand
starting to rise almost involuntarily. You hadn't
planned this. But standing here, watching this
heifer, You're making a calculation that dairy
farmers have made for generations, betting on
potential, gambling on genetics, investing in
tomorrow's production with today's scarce dollars.
You need to understand who you are in this moment.
John William Carlin, driving back to Kansas with
that heifer in your trailer. Your hands on the
steering wheel are calloused from morning milkings,
but they've also held gavels in legislative chambers.
You're living a double life that would break
most people. Your mornings start at 4 a .m. on
your 800 -acre dairy operation outside of Saline.
The familiar routine grounds you. The walk to
the barn in darkness, the soft lowing of cows
waiting to be milked, the steam rising from their
backs in the cold morning air. You know each
cow by her markings, her temperament, her production
records that you keep meticulously in a notebook
by the milk house. But by afternoon, You're in
Topeka, serving in the Kansas House of Representatives.
You were elected just last year, in 1970, at
age 30. Your constituents don't fully understand
how you manage both lives. They don't see you
reading legislative briefs by the light of the
milk house at 5 a .m. or taking calls about committee
hearings while fixing a broken vacuum line. Your
partnership with Lawrence Mayer makes this possible.
You met Lawrence five years ago. and you recognized
in him something invaluable. Competence without
ego. While you handle the breeding decisions
and the politics, Lawrence handles the daily
operations. I took care of the cattle, he says
simply, but you both know it's more than that.
He's the one who notices when a cow's off her
feed, who can spot mastitis before it shows up
in the tank, who remembers which cows need their
feet trimmed. You're also a student of genetics.
though your education came through experience
rather than formal training. You graduated from
Kansas State in 1962 with a degree in dairy science,
but your real education came from watching your
father's cows, from studying the daughters of
different bulls, from learning to see the subtle
differences that separate good from great. Your
political career is ascending rapidly. In six
years, you'll become Speaker of the Kansas House.
In eight years, you'll be elected governor. But
right now, in 1971, driving with this heifer
in your trailer, you're primarily a dairy farmer
making a breeding decision that feels important,
though you can't say exactly why. You think about
the $1 ,500 you just spent. Not a fortune, but
not nothing either. That's three months of milk
checks from five good cows. It's the new bulk
tank you've been putting off buying. It's the
start of your oldest daughter's college fund.
But something about this heifer feels like an
investment in something bigger. You pull into
your farmyard as the sun sets behind the barn.
Lawrence comes out to help unload the heifer.
He looks her over with his practiced eye, running
his hands along her back, checking her legs,
studying her utter development. He doesn't say
much. Lawrence never does, but you catch him
nodding slightly. That's approval in Lawrence's
language. You turn Crimel out into the heifer
lot with the others. She moves well, confidently,
despite being in a new place. You lean on the
gate, watching her establish her place in the
pecking order. The other heifers test her briefly,
then accept her. Standing there, you think about
the breeding decision ahead. She'll need to be
bred soon. The choice of bull will matter immensely.
You've been studying the Select Sires catalog,
looking at the available options. The safe choice
would be a proven bull with balanced traits.
But you're not thinking safe. You're thinking
about potential. You're thinking about the future.
Your wife calls from the house. Dinner's ready.
You take one last look at Cremel, now settled
in with the other heifers, and head inside. Tomorrow
you have committee hearings in Topeka. Next week,
corn planting starts if the weather holds. The
rhythm of your double life continues. But that
heifer in your lot... represents something more
than just another addition to your herd. She's
about to become the foundation of a genetic story
that will ripple through the Holstein breed for
generations. Her son, not yet conceived, not
yet imagined, will become both the salvation
and the curse of the global dairy industry. You
just don't know it yet. You're standing in your
barn on a mild April morning in 1973, and John
Hecker from Select Sires is walking through your
cows. You watch him work, noting how his eyes
move systematically from legs to udder to body
capacity. He's evaluated thousands of cows. His
opinion matters more than you'd like to admit.
Hecker stops at Cromell's stall. She's a two
-year -old now, freshened six months ago. She
classified 84 points. Good. Not great. Her production
is solid, but not spectacular. You watch Hecker's
face, trying to read his thoughts. His initial
expression isn't encouraging. He runs his hands
along her back, checks her udder attachment,
studies her rear leg set. Then he asks to see
her papers. You pull out the registration certificate,
the production records, the pedigree that you've
memorized. Her sire is Hilo Hillside Admiral,
carrying Berkgov Inca Decal breeding, relatively
rare bloodlines. Her dam's side shows Dunloggan
through Mountain Mead dairyman. Hecker is doing
genetic calculations in his head. The industry
is drowning in chief and elevation sons. Everybody's
using the same bulls, creating what geneticists
call inbreeding depression, each generation getting
a little less vigorous, a little less fertile,
a little less profitable. The outcrossed genetics
Cremel carries are becoming valuable, maybe more
valuable than raw production numbers. But Hecker
is hesitant. He points out the weaknesses. Her
maternal line shows unclassified dams, modest
production records. In an era before genomic
testing, before DNA markers, before computer
modeling, he has to make his decision based on
what he can see and what the paper records suggest.
It's art as much as science, intuition filtered
through experience. You make your case carefully.
You talk about her feed efficiency, how she produces
well on basic rations without expensive supplements.
You mention her trouble -free calving, how she
bred back quickly. You point out her feet and
legs. perfect angles, no trimming needed. These
are the practical things that matter in commercial
dairies, even if they don't win shows. Hecker
proposes a deal that shows both his interest
and his caution. Select sires will contract a
mating to Penn State Ivanhoe star. If the resulting
calf is a bull, select sires will purchase him,
but only if Crimmel can reclassify at 85 points
or higher. One point. The difference between
84 and 85 seems arbitrary. But in the cattle
business, such small distinctions determine fortunes.
You shake on it, your dairy farmer's handshake,
that means more than any written contract. After
Hecker leaves, you stand with Cremel, running
your own hands over her back, trying to see what
he sees, trying to understand if you've just
made a deal that matters or one that will be
forgotten. The breeding takes place two months
later. The AI technician arrives on a humid June
morning. You've been watching Cremel's heat cycles,
and she's ready. The breeding is routine. Thousands
happen just like it every day across America.
The technician is in and out in five minutes.
But this particular joining of genetics, this
moment when sperm meets egg, will reshape the
entire dairy industry. Through the summer and
fall of 1973, you watch Cremel carefully. Her
body changes with pregnancy. The subtle widening,
the fuller appearance. You increase her feed
gradually. Lawrence checks on her every morning
and evening, reporting any concerns. She carries
the pregnancy easily, naturally, like the good
brood cow she's proving to be. In December, the
classifier comes for his annual visit. You've
washed Crimel carefully, clipped her properly,
set her up in the best possible light. The classifier
is thorough, checking every aspect of her confirmation.
You hold your breath as he tallies his scorecard,
85 points. Exactly what you needed. Not a point
more, but that's enough. The deal with Select
Sires stands. On May 16, 1974, at 2 .30 in the
morning, Lawrence calls you from the barn. Cromel
is in labor. You pull on your coveralls and boots,
grab the calving kit, and hurry through the darkness.
The delivery is straightforward. Cromel is an
easy calver, another valuable trait. The calf
slides out, covered in fluid, and you clear his
airways, stimulate his breathing. It's a bull
calf, strong, vigorous, on his feet within minutes,
searching for the udder. You and Lawrence stand
there in the yellow light of the barn's single
bulb, watching this new life take his first meal.
You've decided to name him Carlin M. Ivanhoe
Bell. The bell comes from your prefix, but also
because something about this calf makes you think
of clarity, of something ringing true. Within
weeks, a select sire's truck arrives to take
him to their facility in Plain City, Ohio. As
you watch the trailer disappear down your drive,
you feel a mixture of pride and loss. Every dairy
farmer who's sold a good bull calf knows this
feeling. You're sending potential away, trusting
others to develop what you've created. You hope
you've made the right choice. You hope he amounts
to something. You have no idea that you've just
sent away a bull who will generate over 500 ,000
registered daughters, reshape global Holstein
genetics, and carry within his DNA both remarkable
gifts and terrible curses that won't be discovered
for 25 years. While Young Bell grows at the Select
Sires facility, you need to understand what's
happening across the American dairy industry
in the mid -1970s. You're living through a revolution
that's moving so fast most farmers don't have
time to comprehend its full scope. You hear it
on the radio while milking. Another hundred small
dairies have gone out of business this month.
The survivors are growing larger, more specialized,
more dependent on technology and genetics. The
family farms that dotted every rural road are
consolidating into operations with hundreds,
even thousands of cows. In Wisconsin, you watch
your fellow dairy farmers installing new pipeline
milking systems, building free -stall barns,
switching from pasture to total mixed rations.
The cows never see grass anymore. They live their
entire lives on concrete, bred for production
rather than longevity. The old -timers shake
their heads, but the young farmers understand
this is survival. The pressure comes from all
sides. Inflation is eating into profits. What
cost a dollar in 1970 costs $1 .40 now. Feed
prices spike with every drought, every flood,
every international crisis. The milk price support
system offers some stability, but everyone knows
it's political, subject to change with each election.
You attend a breeding conference in Madison where
the talk is all about linear evaluation, computerized
mating programs, and something called total merit
indexes. The geneticists speak of heritability
coefficients and genetic correlations. They show
slides of bell curves and regression analyses.
It's a long way from your grandfather's method
of keeping the best heifer from his best cow,
but there's an undercurrent of concern among
the scientists that doesn't make it into the
sales catalogs. The Holstein breed is narrowing.
A handful of bulls dominate the pedigrees. Round
oak rag apple elevation appears everywhere, if
not as a sire, then as a grandsire or great -grandsire.
The genetic diversity that took centuries to
develop is being concentrated into fewer and
fewer bloodlines. You hear whispers about something
called inbreeding depression, lower fertility,
higher calf mortality, mysterious health problems
that seem to come from nowhere. But these concerns
are drowned out by production statistics. When
a bull can add 2 ,000 pounds of milk per lactation,
who cares if his daughters are a little less
fertile? You'll make up the difference in the
bulk tank. At Select Sire's headquarters, young
Bell is evaluated daily. The technicians notice
his exceptional libido, his high sperm concentration,
his semen's ability to survive freezing. These
are the unglamorous but essential traits that
determine whether a bull succeeds in AI. You
can have the best genetics in the world, but
if the semen won't freeze or the bull won't collect,
you have nothing. Bell's early proof looks promising.
His first daughters are milking in Pennsylvania,
Ohio, New York. The reports coming back are consistent.
Exceptional production, good feet and legs, trouble
-free calvings. But also concerning notes about
stature, about strength, about udder attachment.
The evaluators are divided. Is he a specialist
bull for commercial dairies, or could he be something
more? You're not privy to these discussions back
on your Kansas farm. You're dealing with your
own challenges. A outbreak of mastitis that's
raising your somatic cell counts. A helper who
quit without notice. Corn that's not growing
well in the drought. You check the Select Sires
catalog when it arrives, looking for Bell's listing.
But he's not there yet. Too early. Too unproven.
But in the AI industry, decisions are being made.
Select Sires needs to differentiate itself from
the competition. They need a bull that offers
something different. something that will make
dairy farmers take notice. Bell, with his outcross
pedigree and his early production reports, fits
that need. They decide to market him aggressively
as an outcross alternative to the chief elevation
bloodlines dominating the breed. It's a calculated
risk. If his daughters perform, select sires
will have a winner. If they don't, Bell will
join the thousands of bulls who wash out of AI
every year, their semen dumped, their potential
unrealized. The stage is set for Bell to either
revolutionize the dairy industry or disappear
into obscurity. There will be no middle ground.
You're standing in a commercial dairy outside
Turlock, California in 1982, and you're watching
something unprecedented. The Bell daughters are
coming into the milking parlor, and the meters
on the pipeline are spinning like you've never
seen. These aren't your grandfather's Holsteins
producing 40 pounds a day. These cows are pushing
70, 80, even 90 pounds of milk per day at peak.
The herd manager shows you his DHIA records,
his finger trailing down the columns of numbers.
Bell daughter after bell daughter, all with plus
signs next to their deviation from herd average.
The math is simple and compelling. Each bell
daughter is generating an extra $400 per year
in milk income. With feed costs what they are,
that's the difference between profit and bankruptcy.
But you notice something else as you walk through
the free stalls. These aren't the big, strong,
deep -bodied cows that win shows at World Dairy
Expo. The bell daughters are smaller, finer -boned,
almost delicate -looking. They have a nervous
energy, an intensity that seems to vibrate through
their bodies. They're either eating or milking.
There's no standing around, no wasted motion.
You talk to other farmers, and the stories are
remarkably consistent. In Wisconsin, a dairyman
tells you his bell daughters came into milk like
freight trains, explosive production from day
one of lactation. In New York, a producer mentions
how easy they calve, how rarely he needs to assist.
In Pennsylvania, you hear about their feet and
legs. No trimming needed, no lameness issues
despite walking on concrete. But there's another
conversation happening, quieter, among the registered
breeders who show cattle and sell breeding stock.
You attend a twilight meeting at the local breeders
association, and the mood is different. These
are the people who care about more than just
milk checks. They're building cattle for the
future, for the show ring, for the elite sales.
An older breeder, someone whose family has been
breeding Holsteins for four generations, describes
Bell with barely concealed disdain. He uses the
phrase that will stick, like a drunken guest
at a house party. Powerful, yes, but also crude.
unrefined, lacking the elegance and balance that
defines a truly great Holstein. The room divides
immediately. The commercial producers argue that
milk pays the bills, that structural perfection
doesn't matter if the cow doesn't produce. The
purist breeders counter that short -term production
gains mean nothing if you're destroying the breed's
long -term viability. You find yourself caught
in the middle, understanding both sides. Your
own farm needs the income that high production
brings. But you also understand breeding cattle
is about more than this generation. It's about
creating genetic progress that will benefit your
children, your grandchildren. By 1984, Bell is
everywhere. His semen is selling faster than
select sires can collect it. Every AI company
wants their own Bell, a bull that combines high
production with enough type traits to be commercially
viable. Young Sire programs are sampling every
Bell son they can find, hoping to capture his
production power while correcting his flaws.
You visit the Select Sires facility in Ohio for
a producer meeting. They bring Bell out for viewing.
He's 10 years old now, still vigorous, still
collecting well. He's not an impressive individual,
medium -sized, plain, nothing about his physical
appearance that would suggest his genetic power.
But watching him, you understand that greatness
in genetics doesn't always look like greatness
in the flesh. The Select Sires geneticist gives
a presentation on Bell's proof. The numbers are
staggering. He's already sired over 32 ,000 daughters
in 8 ,221 herds. His predicted difference for
milk has stabilized at plus 1 ,704 pounds. But
the type proofs are concerning. Miney's 4 .32
for overall type, Miney 4 .59 for stature, 4
.31 for strength. The udder composite is particularly
troubling at 94 .72. Someone asks about longevity,
and the room gets quiet. The data is preliminary,
but bell daughters seem to leave herds earlier
than average. They milk like crazy for two lactations,
then struggle to maintain body condition, struggle
to breed back, struggle to stay healthy. The
average productive life is running about 2 .2
years less than their herd mates. But here's
the thing. you and every other dairy farmer in
that room understands. 2 .2 years of lost production
is a problem for tomorrow. The milk check comes
next month. With margins as tight as they are,
with interest rates at 15%, with feed costs climbing,
you need production now. Tomorrow's problems
will have to be tomorrow's solutions. You drive
home from Ohio with 50 units of Bell semen in
your tank. You've already identified which cows
to breed to him. your tallest, strongest, deepest
-bodied cows, hoping their size and strength
will compensate for his weaknesses. It's a calculated
risk, but then everything in dairy farming is
a calculated risk. Back on your farm, you breed
three of your best cows to Belle that spring.
The breedings all take on first service, another
Belle trait. His daughters seem to settle easily.
You mark your calendar, counting forward 280
days. By February, you'll have bell calves on
the ground. You don't know it, but at this very
moment, in research laboratories in Denmark and
Canada, scientists are beginning to notice unusual
patterns in calf mortality. Calves that die mysteriously,
with malformed vertebrae, with immune systems
that don't function. The researchers are starting
to trace pedigrees, looking for common ancestors.
They keep finding the same name, Carlin M. Ivanhoe
Bell. You need to understand what it's like to
stand in the collection barn at Select Sires,
watching Bell work. It's 1985, he's 11 years
old, and he's the most valuable bull they own.
Every collection is worth thousands of dollars.
Every unit of semen represents potential income
for the cooperative and its farmer members. The
collection process is methodical, almost ritualistic.
Bell is led into the barn by handlers who know
his every mood, his every preference. He's not
a difficult bull, another valuable trait, but
he has his routines. He likes to circle the mounting
dummy twice before collecting. He performs better
in the morning than the afternoon. Small details
that matter when you're dealing with genetics
worth millions. You watch his eyes as he works.
There's an intensity there, a focus that reminds
you of his daughters in the milking parlor. It's
anthropomorphic, you know, to assign consciousness
to a bull's genetic influence. But standing here,
you can't shake the feeling that Bell somehow
knows his importance. The technicians tell you
about Bell's semen quality, exceptional concentration,
superior post -thaw motility, consistent performance
across different extenders. These aren't things
that show up in genetic evaluations, but they're
crucial for AI success. A bull can have the best
genetics in the world, but if his semen doesn't
survive the freezing process, he's worthless
for artificial insemination. You think about
the peculiar intimacy of artificial insemination,
how this bull's genetics will enter thousands
of cows he'll never meet, in places he'll never
see. His daughters will milk in barns from New
Zealand to Norway, from Israel to Ireland. His
genetic influence will ripple through generations,
through decades, through bloodlines that haven't
even been established yet. After the collection,
you're invited to the genetic evaluation office.
The walls are covered with charts, graphs, bell
curves, showing the distribution of genetic merit
across the population. Bell occupies the extreme
right tail for production, the extreme left tail
for type. He's literally pulling the breed in
opposite directions simultaneously. The geneticist,
a young PhD from Cornell, explains the concept
of genetic correlations. Some traits naturally
go together. Cows with high production tend to
have higher feed intake, for example. But other
correlations are negative. As you select for
production, you often lose stature, strength,
and longevity. It's not intentional. It's built
into the biology. Bell embodies these contradictions
more extremely than any bull in history. His
production transmission is phenomenal, but it
comes packaged with systematic weaknesses that
can't be separated out. You can't get Bell's
milk without Bell's problems. It's a package
deal. You ask about the rumors you've been hearing,
unusual calf losses, strange mortality patterns.
The geneticist's expression changes, becomes
guarded. They're investigating, he says carefully.
There might be some kind of recessive condition,
but it's too early to say. They need more data,
more cases, more time. Standing there, you realize
Bell has become bigger than himself. He's no
longer just a bull. He's a symbol of the choices
the dairy industry is making. The pursuit of
production at any cost. The willingness to accept
short -term gain despite long -term risk. The
faith that science and management can overcome
biological limitations. You think about your
own farm, your own bell daughters now entering
the milking herd. They're everything promised.
Rivers of milk, easy calvings, good feet and
legs. But you've also noticed things not in the
sale catalogs. They're nervous, almost neurotic.
They lose condition quickly if anything disrupts
their routine. They seem fragile despite their
tremendous output, like engines running too hot.
The facility manager joins you for lunch in the
company cafeteria. He's been in the AI business
for 30 years, has seen bulls come and go, fads
rise and fall. You ask him directly, is Bell
good for the breed or bad? He's quiet for a long
moment, stirring his coffee. Then he says something
that stays with you. Every generation gets the
bull it deserves. Bell is what the industry asked
for. Maximum production, right now, consequences
be damned. We got exactly what we wanted. The
question is whether we wanted the right thing.
Driving home from Ohio, you think about his words.
You think about the choices you're making on
your own farm, the pressures you face, the trade
-offs you accept. You're part of a system bigger
than yourself, driven by forces beyond your control.
milk prices, feed costs, consumer demands, global
markets. Bell is both a cause and effect of these
forces. He didn't create the demand for extreme
production, but he enabled it. He didn't force
anyone to use him, but his availability made
it harder to resist. He's the embodiment of industrial
dairy farming's promise and peril, unprecedented
productivity shadowed by unprecedented risk.
Your farm appears in the distance, the familiar
outline of barns and silos against the evening
sky. Your bell daughters are waiting to be milked,
their udders full, their genetic programming
driving them to produce more milk than nature
ever intended. You pull into your driveway, already
calculating tomorrow's breeding decisions. You're
reading the Holstein world in your farm office
on a cold January morning in 1987, and there
it is in black and white. Bell now appears in
over 30 % of the Holstein locator list. One bull.
Three out of every 10 elite Holsteins in America
carry his genetics. The concentration is unprecedented,
dangerous, but the industry can't seem to stop
itself. You get a call from your neighbor who's
been using Bell heavily. His voice carries a
worry you haven't heard before. He's losing calves,
not just one or two, but a pattern. Calves that
seem fine at birth then fade and die within days.
The vet can't explain it. The nutritionist has
no answers. The calves just die. You walk through
your own calf barn that afternoon, checking each
hutch. Your bell calves seem healthy, vigorous.
But now you're looking for something you can't
quite name, some sign, some warning. You think
about genetic recessives, how they hide for generations
until two carriers mate. With bell's genetics
spreading like wildfire, the chances of carrier
-to -carrier matings are increasing exponentially.
Spring 1988. You're at a production sale in Madison
watching bell daughters sell. The prices are
astronomical. $15 ,000, $20 ,000, even $30 ,000
for the best ones. Buyers from Japan, Italy,
Germany, all competing. Bell genetics have become
global. What started in a Kansas breeding decision
is now reshaping dairy herds on six continents.
But between the lots, in hushed conversations
by the sale ring, you hear the concerns growing
louder. Dairy farmers from Denmark mention strange
calf losses. A veterinarian from Canada describes
calves with malformed spines. A geneticist from
the University of Guelph uses the term genetic
load, the accumulation of deleterious genes that
comes with intense selection. You bid on a bell
daughter yourself. She's out of one of your best
cows, and her production proof is outstanding.
You win her for $8 ,500, more than you've ever
paid for a cow. Driving her home, you wonder
if you're buying the future or mortgaging it.
Summer 1989. The heat is oppressive, and your
bell daughters are struggling more than your
other cows. They can't handle stress, heat, crowding,
feed changes. They're like Formula One race cars.
Incredible performance under perfect conditions,
but fragile when anything goes wrong. You install
extra fans, add more shade, adjust rations. You're
managing around their weaknesses, spending money
to support production that's supposed to be making
you money. December 31st, 1989. Bell dies at
Select Sires. 15 years old, not particularly
old for a bull, but his job is done. He's produced
millions of units of semen, enough to last decades.
The obituary in the trade magazines is glowing,
focusing on his production transmission. his
impact on the breed. The concerns, the whispers
about problems, are mentioned only in passing.
January 1990. You're doing your yearly genetic
audit, looking at your herd's pedigrees. Bell
appears everywhere, as sire, grandsire, great
-grandsire. Sometimes he appears multiple times
in the same pedigree, what geneticists call line
breeding. You've concentrated his genetics, intensified
both his strengths and his weaknesses. You calculate
that 67 % of your herd now carries Bell genetics.
It seemed like smart breeding at the time, using
the bull that added the most milk the most income.
But now, looking at these pedigrees, you feel
a chill that has nothing to do with the January
cold. You've put all your genetic eggs in one
basket, and you don't even know if the basket
has a bottom. The phone rings. It's your veterinarian.
He's just returned from a conference where researchers
presented preliminary findings about something
they're calling complex vertebral malformation,
CVM. It's a lethal recessive causing horrible
spinal deformities in calves. They've traced
it back to a common ancestor. Your stomach drops
before he even says the name. Carlin M. Ivanhoe
Bell. You're standing in your office and the
fax machine won't stop printing. Page after page
of scientific data genetic analysis, confirmation
of what the industry has feared but refused to
acknowledge. The Danish researchers have proven
it definitively. Bell is the source of CVM. Every
single case traces back to him. The mathematics
are devastating. Bell is a carrier, which means
50 % of his offspring are carriers too. When
two carriers mate, there's a 25 % chance the
calf will be affected. born dead or dying shortly
after birth with grotesque spinal malformations.
With Bell appearing multiple times in many pedigrees,
the actual risk is even higher. But CVM isn't
the only problem. The researchers have also confirmed
Bell carries BLAD, bovine leukocyte adhesion
deficiency, another lethal recessive that destroys
the immune system. Calves with BLAD can't fight
infection. They die slowly, painfully, despite
all treatment attempts. You pull out your breeding
records, cross -referencing with the carrier
lists now being published. Your hands shake slightly
as you work through the calculations. Of your
200 cows, 140 carry Bell genetics. If the 50
% carrier rate holds true, you have 70 cows that
could be carrying these lethal genes. Every breeding
decision you make from now on carries a Russian
roulette element. Breed a carrier to a carrier,
and you might get a dead calf. But these are
your best cows, your highest producers. Not breeding
them means economic suicide. Breeding them means
genetic Russian roulette. The phone rings constantly.
Other farmers, all asking the same questions.
What do we do? How did this happen? Why didn't
anyone warn us? You don't have answers. Nobody
does. The industry that prided itself on scientific
advancement, on genetic progress, has been blindsided
by basic biology. You attend an emergency meeting
at the county extension office. The room is packed,
standing room only. Dairy farmers who normally
compete are united in crisis. The extension agent
tries to explain the science, but everyone already
understands the bottom line. Bell's genetics
are everywhere, and they're poisoned. An older
dairyman stands up, his voice cracking with emotion.
He's lost 12 calves in the past year. Now he
knows why. His entire breeding program built
around Bell genetics for 15 years, is contaminated.
The room falls silent as he breaks down, this
tough farmer whose weathered droughts and market
crashes reduced to tears by microscopic DNA.
The AI industry representatives present their
response, new testing protocols, carrier designations
on all bulls, guidelines for avoiding carrier
-to -carrier matings. It's comprehensive, thorough,
and at least 10 years too late. The damage is
done. Bell's genetics are embedded in the global
Holstein population like shrapnel that can't
be removed. You drive home in the gathering darkness,
your mind racing through calculations. The immediate
economic impact is clear. Dead calves, lost pregnancies,
culled cows. But the long -term impact is worse.
You can't use your best bulls because they're
Bell descendants and carriers. You can't sell
breeding stock internationally because other
countries are blocking carrier animals. You can't
even make breeding decisions without consulting
carrier lists and calculating probabilities.
In your barn, you stand looking at your cows.
They don't know they're carrying genetic time
bombs. They just do what they've been bred to
do. Produce milk. Massive amounts of milk. Bell's
great gift and curse combined in every cell of
their bodies. Your best cow, the one you've built
your breeding program around, is a Bell granddaughter.
She's given you 15 ,000 gallons of milk, 12 healthy
calves, countless profits. Now, you know she's
almost certainly a carrier. Every breeding decision
with her and her daughters is complicated, compromised.
You think about John Carlin, who made that purchase
in 1971, who shook hands on that breeding in
1973. Did he have any idea what he was setting
in motion? Could anyone have predicted that one
bull would reshape and then nearly break an entire
industry? The paradox is complete. Bell gave
the industry exactly what it asked for, maximum
production, maximum profit, maximum efficiency,
but he also gave it maximum risk, maximum concentration,
maximum vulnerability. The industry got the bull
it deserved, as that select sire's manager said
years ago. Standing in your barn, surrounded
by Bell's legacy, you understand that there's
no going back. You can't remove Bell's genetics
from your herd, from the breed, from the industry.
You can only manage the consequences, breed more
carefully, test more thoroughly. The revolution
Bell started can't be stopped, only directed.
You're sitting in a mandatory genetic counseling
session in 2001, and the facilitator is explaining
how to read the new carrier codes, BY for Blad
carrier. CV for CVM carrier. The simple two -letter
codes that now determine breeding decisions,
sale prices, export eligibility. Every bull in
the AI catalogs now has these designations. Bell's
legacy reduced to abbreviations. The economic
impact rolls through the industry like a slow
-motion avalanche. International markets that
were paying premium prices for American genetics
suddenly impose restrictions. No carriers allowed.
Your neighbor who built his business on selling
breeding stock to Europe watches his market evaporate
overnight. You attend World Dairy Expo in 2002,
and the change is palpable. The Bell daughters
that once dominated the show ring are disappearing.
Breeders are pivoting to other bloodlines, trying
to distance themselves from Bell genetics. But
it's like trying to remove flour from bread.
Bell is baked into everything. At the Breed Association
meeting, they present statistics that make your
head spin. Testing shows 14 % of Holstein bulls
are BLAD carriers. 23 % are CVM carriers. Some
elite bulls are carriers of both. The genetic
bottleneck everyone warned about has become a
noose. You implement new protocols on your farm.
Every animal is tested. Every breeding is planned
with carrier status in mind. The computer software
that manages your breeding program now includes
carrier probability calculations. What used to
be simple Breed your best to the best has become
a complex matrix of risk management. The costs
add up quickly. Testing fees, $35 per animal.
Lost calves from carrier to carrier matings you
couldn't avoid, $800 each. Reduced sale prices
for carrier animals, 30 % discount minimum. The
extraordinary milk production Bell provided is
being paid for in installments you never agreed
to. 2003 brings a new blow. Researchers identify
another genetic defect spreading through Holstein
populations, brachyspina, causing stillborn calves
with shortened spines. While not directly from
Bell, it's found in many of his descendants.
The pattern is becoming clear. The intense selection
and line breeding on popular sires like Bell
has concentrated not just beneficial genes, but
harmful ones too. You talk to your veterinarian
during herd check, and he shares something that
chills you. He's seeing more of everything. More
metabolic disorders, more fertility problems,
more immune system failures. The Holstein cow
has become so specialized for production that
she's lost resilience. Bell didn't cause all
of this, but he accelerated it, concentrated
it, made it unavoidable. Your daughter comes
home from agricultural college in 2004, full
of ideas about genomic selection, marker -assisted
breeding, new technologies that will prevent
another Bell situation. You listen to her enthusiasm,
but you've become skeptical. Every generation
thinks it has the answer, that its technology
will overcome biology's basic rules. Bell was
supposed to be the answer, too. She pulls up
data on her laptop showing how genomic testing
can identify carriers before they're even born,
how DNA markers can predict production without
waiting for daughter proofs. It's impressive.
Revolutionary, even. But you notice the industry
is still selecting for the same thing, maximum
production. The tools are better, but the goal
hasn't changed. By 2005, you've adapted to the
new reality. Carrier status is just another factor
in breeding decisions, like milk production or
type scores. The industry has developed protocols,
workarounds, management strategies. The crisis
has become chronic condition. But the numbers
tell a stark story. The average productive life
of Holstein cows continues to decline. Conception
rates drop year after year. The number of lactations
per cow shrinks. The industry is producing more
milk than ever, but the cows producing it are
burning out faster, breaking down sooner. You
stand in your barn one evening watching your
cows. They're Bell's daughters, granddaughters,
great -granddaughters. They carry his gift and
his curse in every cell. They're marvels of genetic
selection and victims of it. They produce milk
like machines because that's what we bred them
to be. But machines break down, and these machines
are breaking down faster than ever. The question
that keeps you awake at night, what are we doing
to these animals in pursuit of ever more production?
And what is it doing to us? You're standing in
a state -of -the -art dairy facility in 2024,
watching robotic milkers work with perfect precision.
The cows wear electronic collars that track every
movement, every bite of feed, every minute of
rest. Computers analyze the data in real time,
adjusting rations, predicting health issues,
maximizing efficiency. The herd manager shows
you their genetic profile on a tablet. Bell still
appears in every pedigree, sometimes multiple
times. His influence has become so ubiquitous
that geneticists don't even track it anymore.
It's assumed. Like oxygen in the air, Bell's
genetics are everywhere, invisible but essential.
Modern genomic testing has revolutionized breeding
since Bell's time. Today, you can test a calf
at birth and know its genetic merit for dozens
of traits. You can identify carriers of genetic
defects before they're bred. You can predict
with stunning accuracy how much milk a cow will
produce before she ever enters a milking parlor.
But the fundamental tension Bell embodied remains
unchanged. The industry still selects primarily
for production. The average Holstein now produces
over 25 ,000 pounds of milk per year, double
what Bell's daughters achieved. But she also
lives fewer lactations, requires more management,
costs more to maintain. You attend a genetics
conference where the speaker presents a sobering
statistic. The effective population size of Holsteins,
a measure of genetic diversity, has shrunk to
fewer than 100 individuals. That means the millions
of Holsteins worldwide have the genetic diversity
of only 100 unrelated animals. Bell didn't cause
this alone, but he accelerated it dramatically.
The young geneticists talk about new solutions.
Gene editing, crossbreeding with other dairy
breeds, selection indexes that balance production
with health and longevity. They're confident,
optimistic, certain they can solve the problems
previous generations created. You've heard this
before. What they don't fully grasp, what you've
learned over decades, is that every genetic decision
has consequences that won't be apparent for years,
sometimes decades. Bell looked like pure success
for 15 years before his genetic defects surfaced.
What time bombs are hiding in today's popular
sires? What will the industry discover in 2040
about decisions being made today? The irony is
profound. Bell succeeded too well. His production
genetics were so superior that the industry couldn't
resist using him, even after the defects were
discovered. He proved that extreme genetic merit
in one trait could override all other considerations.
The market wanted milk, and Bell delivered milk.
Everything else was secondary. Today's genomic
bulls are Bell's philosophical descendants. They
promise even more extreme production, even faster
genetic progress. The technology is infinitely
better. but the underlying dynamic is the same,
the pursuit of maximum output from biological
systems that have inherent limits. Standing in
this modern facility, you see Bell's ghost in
every cow, every genetic evaluation, every breeding
decision. He's in the software that calculates
matings, in the semen tanks storing tomorrow's
genetics, in the fundamental assumption that
more production is always better. The question
Bell forces us to ask, are we breeding better
cows or just more productive ones, remains unanswered.
Perhaps unanswerable. You stand in your milking
parlor this morning in 2025, 51 years after Bell
was born, 35 years after he died. The cows moving
through the parlor are his descendants, carrying
his genetics diluted but never absent. Every
cow in America, really every Holstein in the
world, carries some fraction of Bell's DNA. The
morning routine is familiar but different from
decades past. Computers monitor each cow's production
in real time. Automatic takeoffs remove milking
units at precisely the right moment. The milk
flows through stainless steel pipes to a bulk
tank that holds what your grandfather's entire
herd produced in a month. You think about the
cycles of history, how each generation believes
it's different, smarter, better equipped than
the one before. The young farmers today talk
about sustainability, about cow comfort, about
longevity, as if these are new ideas rather than
old wisdom we forgot in the pursuit of production.
Bell taught the industry humility, or should
have. He proved that genetic progress is never
free, that biological systems have breaking points,
that what looks like success can carry the seeds
of crisis. But memories are short, especially
when profits are involved. You check your breeding
list for today. Three cows to breed, all Bell
descendants, of course. The sires you're using
are genomic tested, carrier status verified,
genetic merit evaluated for dozens of traits.
The technology would seem like magic to farmers
from Bell's era. But the fundamental question
remains unchanged. What kind of cow do we want?
What values do we embed in genetic selection?
What trade -offs are we willing to accept? Outside,
the sun rises over fields that have been in your
family for generations, the same sun that rose
over John Carlin's farm in Kansas, over that
auction barn in Oklahoma, over 50 years of breeding
decisions that led to this moment. Bell's paradox
is now our permanent inheritance, the knowledge
that maximum production comes with maximum risk,
that genetic concentration creates vulnerability,
that every breeding decision echoes through generations.
We can't unknow what Bell taught us. We can only
decide whether to learn from it. Your phone buzzes
with a text from the AI technician. He'll be
here in an hour. Time to make breeding decisions.
Time to balance production against longevity,
profit against sustainability, present needs
against future consequences. Time to live with
Bell's ghost, which is really the ghost of our
own choices, reflected back to us in every cow
we milk, every calf we raise, every genetic decision
we make. The paradox continues. The questions
remain. The cows keep producing. And somewhere
in a tank of liquid nitrogen, frozen in time
and potential, wait the genetics of the next
bell, the next bull who will promise everything,
deliver more than expected, and cost more than
anyone imagined. We'll use him anyway. We always
do. Because that's the nature of progress in
agriculture. Always forward, never fully counting
the cost until the bill comes due. You've been
listening to the Bullvine Podcast, and this has
been Bell's Paradox, the worst best bull in Holstein
history. Bell's story isn't just about one bull
or one breeding decision made 50 years ago. It's
about the eternal tension in agriculture between
progress and sustainability, between profit and
principle, between what we can do and what we
should do. Every time you make a breeding decision,
Every time you look at a genomic evaluation,
every time you balance production against longevity,
you're living with Bell's legacy. The questions
he forces us to ask have no easy answers, but
asking them might be the most important thing
we do. The Bullvine Podcast is produced for dairy
farmers who understand that our industry's stories
aren't just about cows and milk. They're about
people, choices, consequences, and the future
we're creating, one breeding at a time. If this
story resonated with you, share it with another
dairy farmer who needs to hear it. Visit thebullvine
.com for more articles, resources, and perspectives
that challenge conventional thinking in dairy
farming. And remember, in dairy farming, as in
life, the most powerful lessons often come from
our biggest mistakes. The trick is learning from
them before the bill comes due. Until next time,
keep questioning, keep learning, and keep pushing
for better, not just more. This is the Bullvine
Podcast. Thank you for listening. This is the
Bullvine Turn the volume high For the icons of
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