At the time I didn't have an answer. Last night Bertha began labor. On the coldest night of the year. If you remember, her first labor was the hottest day of the year three years ago. I wrote about that day, too. That day was physical and emotionally wrecking. Cutting a dead calf out, piece by piece. For three hours. But in many ways, that day was easier than today. The calf died days before labor began. It was more like a lesson in anatomy. A very bloody, traumatizing lesson, but a lesson nonetheless.
The sun rose at 7 a.m. and Jasen and I went to the field, hoping for a calf this morning. We found an exhausted cow, one hoof sticking out. She was with the herd. Not good. Time to call the vet. I put on my muck jeans, boots, layers of clothes and hats and anything else to keep warm. I knew I was in for a long, emotional morning.
Bertha understandably doesn't like people. I get it. I didn't expect her to follow me into the pen, even with the temptation of a bucket of food. The vet arrived armed with a tranquilizer dart and gun. And when I say gun, I mean a gun. It was a friggin miniature rifle.
He warned me. Sometimes the cow dies. If the calf, by some miracle, is still alive, the amount of sedative will likely kill it within an hour of birth. But I was alone, and even with the vet and assistant, Bertha wouldn't leave the herd.
So we shot her in the ass. She didn't even realized it until she started walking in circles, staring at the dart hanging from her left hip and looking at us like "what the heck? Did you just shoot me in the ass?" Very much Will Ferrell in Old School.
It took 45 minutes for her to begin to feel the sedative. But she fought. The vet had to use a lariat, which slowly tightens around the throat until the cow gives up and lays down, allowing the vet to put on a halter. Bertha fought. And suffered.She gave up when her airway became too constricted for her to fight.
We attached the halter to my 4-Runner, a come-a-long to the calf, the come-a-long to heavy duty chains attached to the ATV Mule. And we began winching out the calf. After more than 12 hours in the birth canal, he was alive. I cried.
It was like a moment of pure adrenaline. Get the calf out. Get the apparatus off. Hang him from his hind legs to let the fluids drain. And oh my God. He's breathing.
And then he stopped. There was a heart beat for a while, but the sedative was just too strong. The vet pushed what drugs he could, but he gave us a 50/50 shot. I followed the vet's orders. I took towels and rubbed him vigorously for an hour, hoping to keep his heart beating long enough for the sedative to wear off. After 50 minutes I couldn't feel my thighs. My butt. My hands. I was covered in amniotic goo. Bertha was still knocked out. Snoring, actually. Which was good. She didn't have to watch her baby die.
I did. And it sucked. The Redneck has a point. Why go through the emotional and financial cost of having animals? We stood there, staring at each other, when Cream comes up and rubs her fat pregnant belly across the ATV. Then our little Christmas surprise, EggNog, runs like a bat out of hell through the hay barn, her pale flesh-toned tail straight up in the air. She is the most healthy, happy calf I've ever seen. And her mother loves when we milk her.
EggNog will stay with us and live a long, happy life as our milk cow. It will take months of working with her every day before she begins to trust me and become tame. And I'll keep working with her until she's three, and will have a calf of her own, and it'll be her turn to give us milk. Watching EggNog run around, bucking from the chill, made me realize why we have animals. They give us joy.
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| EggNog, just a few hours old. She's much cuter now. |
So I've shed my share of tears today. It's been in waves. And it's not just about the calf. The calf broke the damn. I'm sad Christmas is over. I'm sad the calf died. I'm sad my son may not believe in Santa next year. I'm sad today.
But this is a good day. Don't judge, but I learned something from Grey's Anatomy years ago. There's a line that stuck with me. It's about how we always say we're "having a bad day." We have a cold. We don't like our job. We're fighting with our loved ones. We're broke. None of those things make a bad day. Uncomfortable. Stressful. Not fun, yes. But not a truly bad day. A bad day is death. That's the only bad day in our lives. The day we lose someone we love. The day we lose ourselves. Every other day? That's a good day.
So yes, there is a fresh grave in the pasture. But there's also a fresh calf galloping around the pond. And yes, my eyes are puffy and there's a constant lump in my throat and I'm sad. But it's a good day.
