Grafting a Calf

It’s calving season at A Land of Grass.

The term Calving Season is a shortcut to say a situation can go from good to bad – or bad to good – in an instant.

At dawn a few days ago, Calving Season was in full swing.

When I checked on the heifers, I found one standing over a dead calf that had been born backward during the night.

She cooed quietly to the stiff corpse.

I knew there was a slight possibility that I could have saved it if I had been standing there, but it was unlikely.

I consoled myself with my brother-in-law’s wisdom.

My brother-in-law raises cattle by himself, too. Long ago, he told me that checking calves at night will cause a person to lose more than not because you get so tired that you make stupid mistakes during the day.

Or, even worse, get yourself hurt.

I reminded myself of this as I watched the heifer stand calmly, confused that the baby she loved wouldn’t stand.

Even though this drought will force me to sell a bunch of cows this spring, I decided to try to find a substitute calf for her.  

Cows are a lot like people in many ways – similar gestation, similar range of personalities, similar hormonal spikes when they give birth.

But they will not accept just any calf that wants to nurse. They want their baby, but nobody else’s.

My challenge was to convince this heifer that a new calf was really her baby.

First I had to find a new calf.

I checked Facebook and Craigslist.

Another rancher had a newborn calf for sale about 120 miles from the ranch.

That calf was a possibility, but spending four hours on the road did not appeal to me.

Next, I called my friend who lives a lot closer.

Nope, he didn’t have an extra calf.

So I texted a nearby neighbor who has had twins in the past.

No answer.

I called his number.

It was disconnected.

I called his work.

He had retired a couple of months ago.

I was beginning to take his disappearance personally.

I also took it as a challenge.

I convinced a co-worker to give me his new cell number.

Jackpot!

He had a twin calf, born just a couple of days earlier.

My apprentice, Hannah, and I hopped in the pickup and headed to his ranch.

The calf fit snugly on Hannah’s lap.

Back at my ranch, the new calf snoozed on the seat while Hannah milked colostrum from the heifer.

I would freeze the colostrum, hoping it might save a future newborn even if this adoption did not work.

Meanwhile, I skinned out the dead calf and made a coat for the new calf, slipping his legs into the leg holes and tying the hide together under his belly with twine.

I left the tail and umbilical cord on the coat so the heifer would smell her baby, not the imposter.

Then Hannah and I stood back to evaluate the results of our efforts.

The imposter calf staggered just like a newborn under the weight of his coat.

The cow cooed and nuzzled the calf, smelling her baby’s scent.

She didn’t seem to consider the miracle of resurrection after death for a single moment.

The new calf circled his adoptive mother, bumping his nose along her belly, searching for lunch.

He found her buffet and she stood still while he nursed.

In that instant, a bad situation turned good.

I left the calf’s coat on for another few days, until the calf drank enough of her milk to smell like his mama. When he started to smell like Dead Hill, I cut off his coat.

Once again, he staggered around, this time with relief.

So did I.