When I was visiting my parents this past weekend, and wanted to be home with Jennifer, I thought of the following:
Sometime when I was in my early teens, my mother woke me in the middle of one blisteringly cold January night. My father happened to be out of town at the time, so I naturally was worried that something was amiss. After giving me a few seconds to emerge from the fog of sleep that surrounded me, she explained that one of our cows was giving birth. I remember saying something like, “Is that the reason you woke me up? The cows have calves all the time. Why is this particular birth worthy of my attention?” She responded with, “On a night this cold, the placenta will freeze on the calf before the cow has time to clean the calf. It will die if we don’t do something.”
I stared at her for a few seconds while I thought, “Crap. This is going to be a long night.” Then I asked, “So what do we do?” She said that we would have to wait for the birth and then bring the calf inside, dry it off, warm it up, and then give it back to the mother as soon as possible. I said, “Okay.” Again, I thought, “Crap. This is going to be a long night.”
I walked slowly to the rear of my parents’ house to the room most closely resembling a mud room. My mother, who was already dressed, waited there while I, still wearing my flannel pajamas, stepped into and zipped up my dirty, red, thickly-lined coveralls. Then I pulled on my rubber boots and a knit hat. I didn’t bother with gloves because I had witnessed enough bovine births to know that it’s not a tidy endeavor; I didn’t want to deal with wet gloves.
We walked out the back door together, my mother holding a large flashlight. As we turned the corner of the house to enter the cow pasture, I started to ask my mother where the cow was. But I immediately realized that my question wasn’t necessary because I saw that the cow was only a few feet from the gate leading into the pasture. As I unlatched the gate, Mom said that the cow had already given birth. I looked to where she was directing the flashlight’s beam and saw a brand new addition to the local cattle population. The calf, which I later found out was a heifer, was, with the exception of her brilliant white face, covered with downy, red hair. Steam was rising off of her body, but she wasn’t moving. In fact, I would have guessed she was dead except that, every few seconds, I could see breath leave her nostrils.
I looked at Mom and asked, “Where do we take her?” “To the house, I guess.” I’d never picked up a calf, but had seen my father do it a number of times, so I walked the few feet to the baby, picked her up by gathering all four of her legs in front of me, and sort of bear hugging her body. She obviously hadn’t eaten yet so she was weak and didn’t move at all. I shifted her weight, and mine, so that her head and neck rested against my right shoulder. Mom walked ahead of me and opened the gate and doors to the house.
Once inside, Mom spread out a blanket in the mud room. I put the baby down as gently as possible and, while my mother went to make a warm bottle, started drying her off with a towel. I dried her as much as possible, but was still worried about her weakness. When Mom returned with the bottle, though, and the baby ate about half of it, my worry was relieved as the calf, having eaten her first meal, almost immediately stood and cried out, presumably for her mother.
I asked my Mom if she thought that the calf would be okay now. She nodded, and I picked the calf up again. As she struggled in my arms this time, it was clear that she did not like leaving the terra firma. I walked as fast as possible to the gate and placed her inside the field. Her mother walked over quickly and began licking her new daughter. I watched in amazement for a few seconds longer while the baby instinctively received nourishment, that was undoubtedly much superior to the formula she had eaten a few minutes earlier, from the cow.
After that, I walked back inside, took off my outerwear, scrubbed my hands and arms, and went back to bed to sleep for a few hours. When I crawled back under the covers, sleep didn’t come for some time. As I lay awake in the dark, I thought about many things. One of things I considered is how I had just helped save a life that probably wouldn’t have made it without my intervention. That is an incredible thing to have been a part of. But that led me to think about how it is paradoxically strange that cows and people have developed a symbiotic relationship whereby cattle are dependent on people to live, and people turn right around and use them as a food source. I still don’t know how to feel about that relationship.
The other thing about that night that, probably unalterably, changed my life is, as I lay there, I decided that I did not want to live on a farm. I have always loved animals, but I decided that, if I could help it, I never again wanted to have to get up in the middle of a cold night and carry a newborn calf into the warmth. That particular night is just representative of many things I dislike about farm life, but it certainly was the final catalyst.
