Neversummer and Nocturne

It was snowing. The snow falling softly, straight down with no wind to drive it.

I stood brushing the horses. We had all the time in the world. No rush to be anywhere or get work done. Right now the work was waiting. In the next pen over a heifer struggled to give birth. With the horses I waited, watching from a distance. Ready to offer help while trying to stay out of her way.

Spring is a time of birth. New life after a cold dark winter. Giving life is not easy though, only the strong survive, both the birthing and the spring. They are harsh and unforgiving. We need to have the will to make it through in order to enjoy the warmth of summer.

The calving season has been cruel, full of death. Young lives that will  never get to lay inn the green grass with summer sun shining on them. The casualties add up in my head, a tally no one wants to keep. The new born with a broken leg. Snapped in half above the knee in front. With little chance of being able to heel the calves drive to live and strong will that had him up and determined to walk guaranteed he would never heel and his drive to live killed him. I sobbed over him, the cold of the barn floor burning into my hand as I held him down  to finish his last bottle of milk while he fought to stand, the leg flopping sickeningly as he forced it to hold his weight. He would have to die to spare him more suffering. Better while he was sill so full of energy and enthusiasm than waiting until he was wore down  from infection and pain.

But to take the life of something so young and so determined to live. Can there be anything worse?

The young heifer who was devotedly licking the hindquarters of her brand new calf. Only minutes on  the ground he had already suffocated, sh was licking the bag off his hind end while it covered his nose cutting off that first breath. I had arrived seconds too late to save him. She spent the day licking and calling to him softy.
The calf who died at a week old. Healthy one day and too weak to move the next. No medications we tried were able to help. His mom spent the next two days calling for him. She called until her voice was broken and hoarse. A cow had twins. To give them better feed and care we brought one in and gave it to the cow. Anything to make her stop calling. After all our attempts at adopting the calf she is still kicking it away as it tries to nurse.
So here I stand. Waiting. Watching. Hoping to prevent another death. It’s hard to hold out until that moment when you know help is needed. To wait and let her try on her own. She was doing good. Two feet were showing, pointing the right direction.

So hear I stood among the horses. Waiting.

Then  one last push. The calf was out. She had done it.

Jumping the fence I went to make sure everything was alright. The calf lay there a puddle of after birth and bag. He was still wrapped securely in the bag that hadn’t broken during birth. His mom lay, exhausted, resting from the work she had done.

I grabbed the bag, sinking my hands into the wet slippery home he had lived in for the last nine months and yanked it back over his head. He lay still.

Had he already suffocated? Where his lings too full of the liquids that had been keeping him alive? Would they kill him now? Usually the bag breaks and their lungs drain as they hang waiting to be fully born. I grabbed the slippery hind legs and hefted his hind end in the air. Hoping to help some fluid drain. He wiggled and jerked. His mom, thoroughly disturbed now, stood to see what  she had accomplished and what I was doing with it.

I let him down and stepped back She stepped back too. Horrified by this new occurrence. Looking on in curious horror as the other heifers came to see. They wandered off. She went to investigate. Wiping my hands on my jeans I made a mental note to remember to take them off before I went inside. Then I took my curry comb  to Ghost who came over to visit.

Again, we waited. The heifer licked her calf. The calf took a watery shuddering breath. This time we would have life.

And the snow kept falling.

It rained all day yesterday. Perfect weather to make lots of mud and get everything soaked through before the snow came today.

We went out this morning to find the cows who haven’t calved yet with their heads to the fence, backs to the driving wind, standing in the full brunt of it.

We had spent the last few days getting the pairs moved to a pen where the calves would be able to get shelter. Then they reinforced the shelter and made sure the wind would be blocked from  the east. All  of our shelter is designed to protect from north and west winds. When it comes from the east we are left wide open. The cows and calves were tucked away nice and warm and dry. Except for the couple of cows who had taken their calves out to the far side of the pen and left them there in the wind and the icy slush we were getting as the weather decided what it wanted to do for sure.

Since  they were mostly good we focused on the cows.

Between the two of us we were able to push them around the corner that was all it would have taken for them to do on their own to find shelter. Once they were all around and through the gate we locked it behind them to keep them from leaving shelter again to go back and stand in the full force of the storm which they greatly preferred.

Then we went to get food. We found a pen we don’t usually use that was fairly sheltered with the wind from  this direction and put some bales out. Then we had to convince the cows to move again. They were slightly more sheltered and didn’t want to move.

Once they were finally settled and everything fed I went to check on the calves whose moms had left them on the far side of the pen while my husband went to feed a couple of other bunches. When I walked out there one calf jumped up and ran back to where the cows were eating out of the wind. The other didn’t budge. I tried to get her to stand. She hung limp, deep into calf camouflage mode. Like a faun they will lay perfectly still counting on their stillness and lack of scent to save them from  predators.

She may also have been slightly frozen.

After failing to convince her to stand I paused and looked around. The pen isn’t large, it’s one of the smaller ones. That still meant that the calf and I were a long ways from the shelter and other cows. The cow who tried to eat me the other day was inn there somewhere. The quickest rout to the cows was straight across the middle. Far from any fences  I could climb to get away. None of the cows had any interest in us though. They were too busy eating to care about a calf freezing out here in the open.

I grabbed two hind legs and began to drag her. She was a small calf. The hooves still hadn’t fully shed their baby softness, she was probably one of the ones born yesterday. She was still more than I could carry. I drug her as far as I could then paused to breath and reassess. The distance to the cows didn’t look any less. There was no way I could get her that far. Against the guardrail fence another calf was laying there. The solid fence was plenty of shelter for a tiny calf. we made a detour.

Knowing there wasn’t as far to go I got both hind legs again  and didn’t stop to rest until we got to the fence. The cows had been far away and uninterested. My back  was to them  as I pulled the calf along. Suddenly there were cows everywhere. Or it seemed like there were. Two or three had come running, the milled about calling for calves, sniffing and checking to make sure everything was alright. I jumped the fence because I’m chicken.  Hopefully the calf’s mom would get her and take her back.

She didn’t.

The cows and other calf left. I was alone again with this limp still calf. Back over the fence again I drug her right up against the guardrail and propped her up again. I stuck  my finger in her mouth to get a quick temp check. Her tongue was cool but there was heat in there. Not good but it could be worse. I stood there trying to decide what I could do.

From behind me I heard a shout. Turning and squinting my eyes against the sleet it took me awhile to spot my husband across the corals in the pickup.  He had finished his feeding and w anted to know what  was going on. We yelled across the distance, neither having any idea what the other was saying. I’ve always said we commune on a higher plan though, he made it clear he was going to come over.

As I waited, back  to the wind, I wrung the water out of my gloves. It was warm still, I was sweating under my coat, but the water was starting to soak through.  My gloves were dripping, my legs were wet, my face soaked. The wet slushy snow was changing to solid flakes. The difference was apparent in that short little bit of time. It was getting rapidly worse.

It took awhile for him to get around,  park the pickup,  walk through the corrals. As he got to the fence though I could see that he was pulling the sled.

My knight in shining armor. I knew we communed on a higher plane. He knew exactly what was needed and had thought it through and grabbed the supplies we would need. what man. Together we loaded the calf on the sled. Of course she then  decided she had to stand up. I walked beside holding her on as he drug sled and calf to the shelter of the old barn. He pulled her up into the cows, onto the warm straw, and deposited her there where hopefully her mom would get her. At least she would be warmer and off the mud until her mom decided to go looking.

It was time for us to go inside. Tie to warm up and dry out a little before the next check. From in here the wind is rattling the house and snow is coming down hard enough that we can barely see across the yard. At least we got the cows settled before it hit hard. Now if they actually stayed in  the shelter.