The Days When it Really Snowed
CONTINUED FROM LAST WEEK
One morning, during one of the heaviest snowfalls of the season, I came upon a newborn calf that had been overcome by the storm. A little black calf, it was nearly white with the snow that covered its coat, that was already wet from the afterbirth. It was too weak to stand to get that crucial first drink of mother’s milk.
Considering the circumstances, I knew it was likely to die. I picked up the calf, laid it on an empty feed sack in the seat of the truck, and took it to our little one-room cabin in a timber on the ranch. With my cell phone, I called the ranch manager that I was covering for, and he had his son bring him to the cabin with some things that might help save the calf.
Inside the cabin I laid the calf on a rug in front of the fireplace, and then built a fire. I took a towel and rubbed all the snow off the calf. By that time the ranch manager arrived, and I gave the calf some colostrum and a penicillin shot. I mixed a bottle of milk, then tried to get the calf to drink.
It was too weak, so I massaged its throat with my hand to help it swallow. A few minutes later the calf had drunk most of the milk, and the cabin was much warmer from the fire. Little Cody the Cowdog sat very attentive, but somewhat jealous of all the attention I was giving the calf. But I think Cody was excited as I was when the calf eventually got on his feet.
The calf drank a little more milk, and was obviously a lot stronger and more likely to survive. The real question at this point, however, was whether his mother would accept him. If not, then I was likely to become the mother.
Unfortunately, the mother cow wanted nothing to do with the calf. The little one no longer smelled like the animal she’d given birth too, but a critter that smelled like human, dog, and wood smoke. I took the calf back to the cabin, fixed it a warm place to bed down, then went to town to a café—a local favorite nicknamed “The Greasy Spoon.” It’s one of those typical places where farmers gather and share insight, laughs, boast about their successes, and harass the waitresses.
It’s a come as you are type place, where the floor is never mopped, cigarette and cigar smoke consumes the air, and spittoons reside underneath the tables. After telling my recent calf-saving experience to the group of farmers at my table, one got up, walked out to his truck, and then came back in with a white plastic container about the size of a Noxema jar.
The container was labeled “Calf Claim,” and the farmer vowed it had worked for him. Somewhat skeptical, I drove back out to the ranch, which was now under about 20 inches of snow and still falling. With a bag of range cubes, I lured the mother cow into our corral, and left her a big round bale of hay of her own.
I went back to the cabin and picked up the calf, still pert and ready for life, and got out the container of Calf Claim. I put a little of the contents on the calf’s back, per the instructions, then proceeded to the corral. I laid the calf in a pile of hay, and then went to the other side of the corral. I rested my arms on a fence rail and watched.
The cow went to the calf fairly quickly, inspected it with her nose, and occasionally looked at me. To my surprise, within a few minutes, the calf was on its feet nursing. It was quite a relief to know my motherly duties were over, but more so to know that the calf now had a much better chance at survival.
The survival of the calf had several meanings for me. For one, it was a calf that would likely gain weight naturally and be a productive if not profitable part of our herd. Secondly, it gave me a challenge and a learning experience that was very fitting to the activities I desired during my extended vacation.
Lastly, it was emotionally moving to see an animal so close to death gain the strength to survive. And it was a pride-filled moment to know that I was there at the right time, and could do my part in saving the calf’s life. It was only a few days before I was able to release the cow and her calf back in to the herd, and just like the others, observe their daily progress.
The calf was always a little tamer than the rest, and easily identifiable by its little round teddy bear-like ears—a result of them being frost bit shortly after its birth. By spring I had staked my claim in the Ozarks and my extended vacation was over. I’d visit the farm occasionally throughout the year, and while there I’d make sure I took the time to visit the cow herd.
That fall, I went back to the farm to help work the cattle and wean the calves for market. I was quite amazed at how the calf turned out. It was one of the biggest of the herd, as tall as his mother, with a thick, round face to compliment his even rounder teddy bear ears. As I watched him go through the squeeze shoot, receive his vaccinations and ear tags, and eventually into the stock trailer, I couldn’t help but relive the incredible moment when I first saw him lying there—a little helpless black bundle covered with snow, facing death.
It wasn’t until the stock trailer drove away that I realized the true value of my experience with that calf. Not only was it one of the highlights of my extended vacation, but a lesson in perseverance, faith, and a moment of nostalgia that I’d longed to relive. A time of being a cowboy again, and a chance to go back to the days when it really snowed.
© 2003 Steven Anderson Law