Bernadette's Symmetry

As I approached the corral in the wispy dawn, I could see I was too late.

My favorite heifer, Bernadette, laid down, stood up, and grunted, with two enormous feet protruding from the back.

I guided her into my clanky old chute, looped chains around the calf’s feet and tugged to assess how hard this would be.

Bernadette squatted on her hind quarters.

This was dangerous for a lot of reasons, the most urgent was that cows can choke to death if they lean back on the head-catch.

Bernadette was tired, but she wasn’t choking.

Instead, she was sitting on the calf’s feet. I could hook the calf-puller to one foot, but the other was folded under Bernadette.

I cranked the puller anyway.

Bernadette groaned and shifted her weight.

I dug the calf’s stuck foot out and cranked again, knowing the calf was dead.

I thumped on his chest anyway.

Yep.

I was right.

He was dead.

Disappointed, angry and sad, I apologized to Bernadette.

She just laid in the chute, exhausted.

Bernadette was my favorite heifer, not because of her disposition or potential productivity, but because I allow myself to be sentimental once in a while.

Three years ago, a long drought insisted that I cull my cow herd down to the bare minimum.

I kept Bernadette’s mama along with a few other heifers with genetics I like, just so I would have a glimmer of hope for the future despite the sun-scorched, hopeless pasture dust.

Two years ago, Bernadette’s mama abandoned Bernadette while trying to adopt another cow’s calf.

I was so mad at her betrayal that I turned her into sausage.

My milk cow, Maija, raised Bernadette.

Now, because of my failure to save Bernadette’s calf—my betrayal to her -- Bernadette was going to be stew meat.

After all, every life on this ranch has to contribute.

Even my disabled housecat, Scooter, catches mice.

Well, she plays catch-and-release with mice.

But the other day, Scooter aimed her attention at a corner cupboard.

Relentlessly.

Even when I put food in her bowl.

I opened the cupboard to find a mouse in a trap.

Scooter sniffed the mouse, turned and promenaded out of the kitchen, nose in the air, confident she had done her part to protect her palace.

While Bernadette recovered from her ordeal, I drove dejectedly to the pasture to check for more new calves.

In the middle of an 850-acre pasture, two older cows huddled together with their newborns.

Not a good sight.

Cows, like sheep, need to calve alone, where they can focus on their baby without distractions.

These seasoned old girls knew that.

Sure enough, both cows were claiming one calf and abandoning the other.

I loaded the abandoned calf into my pickup, cussing at the traitorous cows but glad Bernadette had another chance.

If Bernadette would raise this calf, I would be short on stew meat.

I smiled at the symmetry of the Universe.

I wiped the calf down with Bernadette’s personal scent and put them together in a small pen.

The calf searched for breakfast.

Bernadette kicked the calf.

I guided Bernadette back into the chute and helped the calf find the faucet.

We all banged our heads on various protruding metal, Bernadette squatted, the calf refused the tiny faucet and I got a hankering for beef stew.

Throughout the day, I tried to pair these two until all of us were exhausted.

Finally, I gave a bottle of colostrum to the calf.

We would try again in the morning.

By sunrise, the calf liked Bernadette, but Bernadette didn’t like the calf.

I’ll give her a week to change her mind.

Otherwise, I will add to the Universe’s symmetry.