Calving with Company

Last week, I welcomed my friends for the first visit in far too long.

We celebrated for a couple of days, but calves are popping up in the pasture so it was time to get back to work.

We would divide and conquer.

Jeff and my brother, Roger, hunted coyotes while I took Katie and the ranch apprentice, Jennifer, to hunt for newborn calves.

The men carried rifles. We carried a tagger and a bander.

Just about the time I spotted a lone cow in the distance, I received a text from Roger.

“A cow near the power line looks like she is calving.”

I was not alarmed.

The heifers who are most likely to need help enjoy temporary housing in the corral. Every cow in the pasture boasts a history of at least one offspring without assistance.

Yet, the cow laid down and stood up, then contorted to lick herself.

Yellow fluid under her tail clued a lengthy effort.

If the calf was alive, he was stressed.

I watched through my binoculars for a few minutes, assessing the resources at hand to get the cow the mile and a half to the chute and our assistance.

In the past, there have been times when I had a lot of people around, but only a little help.

A quiet alarm went off in my head.

Mental alarms enhance my directiveness.

Roger took one pickup to open the gates to the corral.

Jennifer took the other pickup to saddle Freckles, my most reliable horse.

Jeff, Katie and I began to ease the nervous cow toward help.

On foot.

When cows are stressed, they find solace with the herd.

None of us would win an Olympic sprint.

My plan might work only if everyone kept their hands in their pockets, moved slowly and could hear my directions as we pushed into the chilling wind.

Take two steps forward.

Take four steps toward me.

The cow looked us over, turned and moseyed toward the corral.

Roger, Jennifer and Freckles appeared just as the cow decided to trot to her friends.

Freckles and I helped her choose a better path while eight feet built a moving wall behind her.

The wind bit my nose. I wondered whether anyone else felt it.

Nobody said a word.

At least, no words I could hear.

The dance of directing the cow sped up from a two-step to a swing dance.

People on foot spread out, ran to the right spot on the wide open prairie and kept their hands in their pockets.

The dance morphed into a tango, too complicated for me to direct traffic.

I stuffed the now-clanging alarms down into my stomach.

Everyone read the changing situation on their own, trusting instinct and an occasional holler from the saddle.

Jump the creek now!

Go wider!

The cow eased her way into the corral.

Roger closed the head-catch.

My coat came off.

My fingers felt two front feet and a nose.

The alarms in my head quieted.

Jeff started to video and the alarms clanged again. I didn’t want a video of a dead calf.

Katie held the tail, Jennifer and I pulled on chains around the calf’s feet.

The calf pulled his feet back.

He was alive.

A video suddenly seemed okay.

The calf slid out into a heap.

Roger dragged him to the front of the chute.

The cow’s mothering instincts took over.

She thought about eating us.

We left her alone and trooped up to the house for biscuits, gravy and recovery from our dance.

Jeff’s pant legs were soaked, Katie’s hands were pink and Jennifer had afterbirth in her fingernails.

As our adrenaline subsided, we watched the video.