A Calf's Birth Story

My daughter, Abby, had to write a college paper about her birth story.

When she called to ask questions, I was about to pull a calf.

Somehow, I doubted the calf and Abby would have similar birth stories.

This baby would be the mama’s first.

Abby was my second.

My first, Will, was born in a hospital with soft pillows, IVs full of drugs, 20 hours of labor, and lots of antiseptic.

Abby took five hours to arrive, then she was whisked away for tests and a bath.

I gave the heifer 20 minutes to show some progress before I trotted to the barn to get the calf-puller.

Abby’s labor commenced after my bedtime. By the time we got to the hospital, I managed to take a little nap between contractions.

During the heifer’s 20 minutes of pushing, I watched her lay down and stand up with two feet sticking out, but I didn’t give her time to sleep.

Instead, I guided her to a squeeze chute.

Abby and the calf shared one aspect of their respective stories.

Abby’s birth story included doctors advising an old woman to take tests during pregnancy – at my age, they were sure Abby would have birth defects so I better be tested.

I declined the tests, knowing the results wouldn’t change my decision to finish this race.

The heifer didn’t undergo genetic testing, either.

She and I both gambled that she would grow a baby that could survive in this world.

As I lugged the calf-puller to the heifer corral, I realized it could be used in a Medieval torture chamber.

It’s a heavy brace that sits low on a cow’s hips with a long pole and a ratchet. Hooks hold the chains that are wrapped around the calf’s feet.

No Bluetooth, AI or even a wi-fi connection required.

No pillow, IV, or sterilized bedsheets were handy.

And certainly not hours of intense pushing.

A calf comes out in a diver’s position so the widest part of its head shares the narrowest parts of its front legs as it slips through the heifer’s pelvis.

I pulled the front legs out so the elbows weren’t competing for space with the calf’s cheeks.

The calf’s tongue hung limply between its feet.

Neither of us had much time left.

I stepped on the far end of the calf-puller to keep it angled down and ratcheted the calf’s feet toward the ground.

The heifer groaned.

Ratcheting became harder.

The calf’s legs stretched.

I pushed the heifer’s skin back, hoping she wouldn’t tear while I remembered healing from episiotomies.

I ratcheted more until, finally, the calf’s head popped out.

I cleared his nostrils.

I didn’t need him to suffocate now.

I also didn’t need him to slip down onto the calf-puller pole and break his neck so I clanged and banged it out of the chute while the calf hung from his mama.

The heifer groaned again.

Hip-locked, the calf dangled.

Abby had been yelling at the doctor by the time she had been hip-locked.

I hung on to his slippery head and shoulders, rotated him, then stepped back, letting him hit the ground and shake his head.

I dragged the calf out of the back of the chute and let the mama out of the front.

No hot water bath for this baby.

The mama bathed her new baby with her tongue, cooing to it softly.

The calf was still damp when he wobbled to his feet for breakfast.

Then both the mama and the calf curled together for a nap -- just as first Will and I, and then Abby and I had curled together for our first sleep.

Some parts of birth stories are universal.