Girl POWER

DISCLAIMER: This story is surely about girl power. Overcoming what appears too difficult to attempt. Women kicking ass and getting it done. But...it is also about delivering a dead calf. It's gruesome, gory and not for everyone. But it's part of being a Redneck's wife. For those of you who choose to read, enjoy. For those of you who skip this post, I don't blame you. I wish I could get the images out of my mind.

Our cows deliver one calf each year with no problem. We have the occasional calf die, but that's nature. Yesterday I came home to find a cow trying to deliver her first calf. I decided to record it. That's one tape I'll be rewinding and recording over.
She pushed for about 45 minutes, and I decided to call Jasen over. Much more than an hour of labor will kill a calf. The hooves were barely visible, and the cow wouldn't lay down in one spot for more than a few contractions. We decided to lead her into the pen, and try to help.
Helping a cow deliver is not easy. It's slippery, and hot, and sometimes needs a come-a-long. Jasen put his hands inside of her, grabbed onto the hooves, and pulled. Nothing. Except that he seriously pissed off the cow. She bolted, kicked sideways and thrust her lowered head at Jasen. Not good. We tried that route a few more times, and decided to let nature take its course. It was after hours for the vet. And like I said, we've never had problems with deliveries. I figured we'd go back out, and everything would be over.
Two hours later, at 9 p.m., Juni was snoring in his bed, and Jasen and I were again at the barn. I'm in my nightshirt and Birks, Jasen in his underwear and coveralls. With a flashlight. And lots of bugs. My job was to shine the light at the cow's whoowhoo, while Jasen tried to put the rope around the hooves and pull. Nothing doing. Except that we both needed showers afterward. At 11 p.m. we decided to again let nature take its course. The cow was soaked with sweat, breathing rhythmically, and pissed. But she was eating and drinking. We knew the calf was dead. It had been too long. But cows aren't like humans...it takes weeks for infection to set in. I'd  hoped she'd pass it during the night.
This morning we checked at 6 a.m. The cow was in the same standing position, and  in the same ornery mood as the night before. Jasen went to work and I called the vet.
I didn't know what to expect, other than a fight with this cow. The vet arrived at 10 a.m., and got out of the truck. First of all, it was a she. About 5'8 and maybe 130 lbs. And absolutely beautiful. She had an assistant. Also a woman, and shorter than me.
So I'm thinking this is a lost cause. We don't have a shoot for the cow's head. We have three women in 95 degree heat. And a very uncomfortable, aggressive, 900 lb cow. I'm not seeing good times ahead. I'm seeing cuts, and bruises, and heat stroke.
But within 5 minutes, the vet had roped the cow, tied her to the fence, and had an extra gate shoving her into the corner. Unbelievable. And just the beginning. She slipped her arm, up to her pit, inside and said "Holy shit. Holy shit! The calf is absolutely huge! I mean, seriously gigantic."
There was no way the calf would have been delivered without a C-section. And at this point, there was no way the calf was coming out whole.
At first I started to cry at the thought of butchering a calf before its birth. But then I remembered...it was already dead. And this was the least invasive way to save the cow.
The vet and her assistant began by threading a wire inside, wrapping it around the neck, and working the wire back and forth. The vet kept her arm inside, holding the body in place. She used every ounce of her weight to keep the cow stationary.
Twenty minutes later the vet put both arms inside, dug her boots into the concrete, and pulled. With every muscle of her body. The cow squirmed, but didn't make a sound. And then it came.
A head. The whole head. And nothing but a head.
I didn't realize they were severing the neck. I also didn't realize that was just the beginning.
The vet said by the look of the body, the calf died before labor began.
The cow relaxed after the pressure of the head was removed. She relaxed, and peed. Gallons. The urine came gushing out in spurts. As did the poop. And amniotic fluid. On the vet. She took a sip of water and kept working.
She took out each front leg. The lungs and heart. The sternum. Each half of the ribcage. Each hind leg. And the placenta. Piece by piece, goo by goo, hour by hour. At 1 p.m., three hours after we began, the calf was out, the buzzards were circling, and the vet was covered, head to toe, with innards and sweat.
The hair on her arms was matted with feces. She had placenta dripping from her clothes and hands. Her boots were soaked through with urine, fluid and diarrhea. Sweat dripped from her nose. And her hair was perfect, tousled on top of her head.
Through the entire ordeal, I was half horrified by what we were doing. And half amazed at the power these women held. Their muscles bulged. They didn't give up. They said they can do anything that they put their mind to. They used leverage instead of the strength only men have. And they smiled the entire time. Pure determination.
From what we can tell, the calf weighed a good 100 lbs. The average size of our calves is 50 lbs. The vet said it was the largest calf from a grass-fed cow she'd ever seen. And it's sitting in a pond of its fluid, waiting for Jasen to bury it. I'm too tired, too drenched with sweat, and too emotional.
It didn't bother me, taking out the calf. It's how the cow acted afterward. She wouldn't leave. She sniffed the pieces in confusion. A blur of instinct, and no baby to nurse.
The vet finally had to take a board to her head. Repeatedly. And finally, she slowly walked away, across the barnyard, and into the pasture. She didn't understand. She's grazing now, like nothing every happened. She's pumped full of antibiotics to deter infection, and medication to stimulate contractions to flush her system.
The vet's clothes were soaked through to her skin. She showered with the hose in our barn, scrubbing her arms with a wire-bristled brush. And drove off to her next appointment. It still amazes me that I was her first stop of the day.
Tomorrow, I'm putting the bull, Big John, up for sale. I can't have him breed this cow any time soon. And when she comes into season, he will literally run through the fences and hot wire to get to her. And I can't send her to the hamburger mill. I'm going to start over with the bull calf in the field. I'm going to do this right. Ethically.
C-sections, from what the vet said, are common in cows now. The bigger the calf, the bigger the profit. That's not for me. I want healthy, happy cows in my field.
I know this was a freak accident. Odds are it will never happen again. And I'm incredibly thankful for that. There's no way I could go through this day again. It's going to be a long time before I can walk by the pen and not see visions of what happened. Smell the stench of gasses, fluids and death. Hear belches, slurps and gushes. Feel the heat and disgust.
But with each word that I type, I feel a little better. A little more cleansed. A little more energized to raise these cows the natural, caring way. Despite the hardships, I enjoy the cows. And I enjoy the physical work I didn't think I was able to do. And I enjoy knowing that my cows are happy while they're here.
Being a Redneck's Wife is difficult. It's work, in every sense of the word. And sometimes, it's downright nasty.