There’s another orphan calf out in the shed. Last night, Joe came in after feeding the
cows and announced that he had an extra grey calf and couldn't figure out which
cow it belonged to. Only one cow had
recently calved, but that was several days ago and now she was keeping vigilant
watch over a little black baby. While
Joe spooled hay off the back of the tractor, this little grey calf ran up and
down the line of cows as they followed him, bawling for a meal, but no mama
claimed him.
We fixed up a bottle of milk, and Joe took it out. The calf sucked down the whole half gallon. Apparently the mama cow with the black calf
gave birth to twins, let them both nurse for a couple of days, and then decided
two was too many so she abandoned one.
This can happen. It makes me sad
to think of a mama choosing one offspring over another, but I guess in the
wild it makes sense for survival of the species.
This morning we wake to temperatures in the low teens and
blowing snow. We both think immediately of the hungry grey calf. “Maybe
we better go out and see if he’s been claimed,” Joe says pulling on his
coveralls. “If he hasn't, then you’ll
need to ride along with me. We’ll catch
him and bring him in.”
It’s the kind of day that makes me wish I didn't have to
go out. The wind bites my nose and the sleet
stings my cheeks as I pull the gate open for Joe. There is no sign of our cows so we drive the
quarter mile length of the field peering through the snowy air. It will be hard to spot a grey calf in this
weather. Finally we see the herd of cows
huddled on the lee side of a rock pile next to the river. Icicles dangle from their sides and their
black backs are completely frosted in white.
Hopefully
the calf is in among them.
We both hop out of the truck and ease around the cows. No sign of the calf. Finally Joe spots him curled on top of a rock
pile. He is a big ball of grey fur and white
snow and he blends in with the rocks. He
doesn't run very far before turning and letting Joe catch him. He must remember the milk.
We pull him into the truck and I ride back down the field
with the calf shivering at my feet. We
turn off the heater because that coat of ice actually protects him from heat
loss. If we melt it, he will be wet and chilled. I stick my fingers in his mouth. It’s warm, which is a great sign.
When we get to the shed the other orphan calf butts me as we
lead the little grey calf in. He has had
his morning grain, but because he was only recently weaned he believes that if
he butts me hard enough milk will appear.
Luke, our dog who loves all living things, wiggles through the door and
begins licking the new calf. The calves
and dog bow and jump a little in pretend play and I’m glad to see it. There's a lot of life in this new calf. Joe returns and offers the newest orphan a
full bottle. I offer my fingers to the
black calf so he’ll stop nosing in for a share and he sucks contentedly on them
long enough for the grey calf to finish the bottle. Then we leave the two
calves to get acquainted. I think our
black orphan is happy to finally have a companion.
Raising bottle calves is difficult for me. These are bulls, soon to become steers. I have learned to resist their big black eyes
and long eyelashes. For one thing, they
will soon be big enough to do some real damage to me if they continue to butt
me for milk. And, one day they will be
sold for slaughter. That’s the hard
truth of this job. They will have great,
happy lives, but they are not pets. When
they are young and cute, sometimes that’s hard to remember.
