Imagine there’s an X between the eyes,” Tom said, pointing the gun at the invisible mark on the animal’s forehead. Nervous and grateful for the direction, I did as instructed. I had only just locked my eyes on the unsuspecting calf when the single shot was fired, cracking and echoing in the evening air.

The calf dropped to the ground, its legs kicking and flailing briefly – the final movements of an animal that just 15 minutes ago I’d seen running and leaping about the field.

“Which one is it?” I’d asked Jack’s father as we stood at the back door to the farmhouse, watching as Jack worked to separate the calf and its mother from the rest of the herd.

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He pointed out the little brown calf with the white face and the dark patch under his right eye – the liveliest one of the lot.

“Will you be coming over to the yard to watch?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t need to be seeing that,” he said. “You spend your days feeding them and rearing them – keeping them alive… I don’t need to see that.”

I did, though. I’d decided I needed to see it. I was in a relationship with a young farmer. This was his world, and his reality. I wanted to understand it, to be able to visualise the things he told me about, to be able to better relate to him and empathise with sincerity when things got tough. The culling of six PI BVD calves certainly fell into that category.

This was the sixth calf to be destroyed, but as I watched Jack’s face now – the firm-set jaw, the furrowed brow – I knew it didn’t get easier, no matter how many times you witnessed it.

I wondered if he would take any consolation from the fact that he was doing the right thing. I imagine it’s difficult to think that way when it’s most likely due to someone else’s wrong-doings that you find yourself in this situation in the first place.

As I watched Jack help Tom load the carcases on to the back of the truck, I felt his frustration and his sadness. Personally, I felt a sense of disappointment, too.

Farmers are part of an ecosystem. Just as they buy and sell from one another, and share our country’s land, they also share in the knowledge that theirs is a profession that can be as difficult as it is rewarding – a way of life that comes with its own unique set of challenges. It’s a fellowship, a brother and sisterhood – the strength and success of which relies on those involved conducting themselves and running their farms in such a way that is for the good of each other, as well as he industry as a whole.

In this context, that means identifying and destroying BVD calves as quickly as possible so that young farmers like Jack and, indeed, all honest, hardworking farmers don’t continue to find themselves faced with the soul-crushing task of destroying stock from a herd that, up until now, had been clear of BVD.

Not only is the prompt slaughter of a PI BVD calf the right thing to do morally speaking, the financial gain that stands to be made by the country’s farmers once this disease is eradicated is not to be sniffed at – over €100m per year.

Bearing all of that in mind, I have to wonder who these farmers are, these farmers who chose to hinder progress and compromise their own herds as well as those of their fellow farmers by knowingly holding on to PI calves.

When it was all over, as we walked back to the house afterwards, Jack asked if I was OK. And I was, overall, if maybe just a little “shook”. Which surprised me. As someone who’d sooner personally escort a mouse from a house than lay a trap for it, I’d managed to keep my emotions in check while witnessing my first cull, and I’d done so by focusing on the fact that what was being done, while undoubtedly tough on the farmer and those who looked on, was the right thing to do.

As I lay in bed that night, it wasn’t the calf that played on my mind, however, but my dog, Dustin. My brother, sister, and mammy were with him when the vet administered the injection that previous summer. I was not. Living in Dublin, and without a car at the time, it would have taken me a few hours to get up home to Derry. And, after hearing the vet’s diagnosis and knowing he was in pain, I didn’t want to prolong his suffering. The rest of my family thought it was best that I wasn’t there anyway. They thought it might be too upsetting for me. Back then, I’d have been inclined to agree with them.

Tonight, though, I was reminded that it’s only when we step outside of our comfort zone that we see the stronger stuff of which we’re made.

By channeling the mindset that it was not only for the good of Jack’s farm, the national herd, and the calf itself, I was able to watch the slaughter and process something that, previously, I would’ve thought myself incapable of doing.

I felt stronger because of it, and as I waited for sleep to come, I gave a little tip of the cap to farming for this simple yet valuable lesson. I only wish I’d learned it sooner. Perhaps then I’d have found a way to be with my beloved pet in his final moments. Perhaps then, I’d have been able to say goodbye.

Doing the right thing isn’t always easy, but it is always right. It grants us peace of mind – the freedom to live life free from guilt or regret. And who can put a price on that?