Life Goes On—And Then It Doesn’t
It is calving season here on the farm. A smattering of newborns speck the back green like little black beacons of hope and promise. Their mothers, watching hawkishly over their offspring, graze and nurse and bond. This season however, like the world we live in right now, has not quite been like those of the past.
My husband has been in the cattle business for seventy years, give or take. He has seen it all. He has experienced devastating losses, from lightning strikes to toxicity. Many moons ago, Gordie kept a herd next to a church in Maryland. Some of the parishioners, unknowingly, pruned some yew bushes on the property and threw the branches over the fence for the cattle. The wilted leaves are highly poisonous. The outcome was disastrous.
There are more prosperous times. There are the successfully born twins. There are the bottle-fed calves who despite losing their mothers, grow up to glory. There is always much for which to be thankful. However, in a 365 days-a-year operation, we rarely pause to mourn or celebrate. We carry on. It is the farm way.
Presently, there have been several first-time heifers who have struggled. It has not been a good year. Most of the problems can be traced to a bull to whom we bred by artificial insemination. He shall go nameless. He passed every test, every genetic specification to which we adhere to assure easy calving. These are registered Angus cattle. Progress is measured through performance and we consistently draw on breeding histories and science to guide us along.
Our front-line responder is Jerry Crenshaw. Jerry is the man we call when there are problems. He never hesitates. He is family. Jerry is our brightness in this time of discontent. He is wise. Working on instinct coupled with years of hands-on experience, Jerry is measured. Jerry naturally knows what to do, similarly to his wife, Betsy.
It is to Jerry that we give thanks. Today’s heifer is struggling. Her tag number is 40. A lone front foot protrudes from her birth canal. The calf is big. The heifer is working hard but nature is not taking her course.
Social distancing is scrapped when you are in trenches. Elbow deep, Jerry leads the effort to deliver the goods. The heifer’s breathing is labored. Her eyes wonder back into her head. She pushes. She pushes. She pushes. The calf is not coming. Hand pulling and chains are not enough to guide the calf through her smaller pelvic area.
We up our game with a calf jack. We move slowly under Jerry’s direction. Patience.
When the cow pushes, we apply gentle pressure at her hip with the jack and pull down, all together. With the head emerging, we know the calf is stillborn. It has been dead in her womb for some time. Jerry and I are side by side bent on saving this cow, to give her another chance. In birth, we have already lost a mother and her calf and too many other big calves to mention. The calves were never supposed to be so hefty. We take our time. We console the heifer. We urge the girl along. We will see this through the end.
At 8am Sunday, when normally I would be sitting in the fourth pew at Trinity Church, awaiting the start of service, the calf finally emerges. A sense of calm prevails, though Jerry never showed an anxious sign. The calf weighs 100 pounds at least. Still warm from his mother’s belly and hushed. We already knew this would be no success story.
But the mother, in relief, pauses. Her breathing slows to normal. She eventually sits up, benefits from some antibiotic treatment, expels her afterbirth. She later chomps on some hay and starts to regain lost time. We comfort her as best we can while removing the calf from the barn scene.
In the far field she will join the other cows who have lost their calves this season. Before COVID, we may have grafted a dairy calf to the new mother. We save the hide of their calf and the cow will smell and think it is their own. But in these pandemic moments, that is not an option.
She may behave like some of the others, mourning the loss and crying for her calf for a day or two. One is atypically aggressive, chasing the black Labradors when they join me on walks, a pasture aside. Thankfully, sturdy wire separates us and we fall away. The cow stands and bellows, then walks the entire length of the fence row. She is still producing milk. She grieves.
Evening comes, and it is Jerry who returns to check on the cow we saved today. To assess her progress, he encourages her to stand and succeeds, albeit briefly. She needs rest. She will take her time before catching up to the rest of the herd.
Robin Keys
