It was 5 degrees above zero; blowing a stiff, northwest wind as I topped the hill towards the herd of standing cows. Six-inches of snow on the ground made the cold wind seem even worse, and the cows, attempting to shield themselves from the frigid breeze, were all lined up along a perimeter fence, bordering a wooded area along the west side of the field. As I unrolled the first bale of hay, the ladies had a tough time trying to figure out whether to leave the limited shelter of the trees or fill their bellies. Ultimately, as it always does, the desire to eat won out.
I drove along the line of bovines, checking to see which ones were close to calving, and counting as I went: one cow short. I didn’t have to drive far to discover the missing cow standing alongside a creek bank, humped up with remnants of afterbirth hanging from her posterior. There, not more than 20 yards from the would-be mother was a dead and frozen calf, still covered in a glaze of placenta. The cow hadn’t even been a good enough mother to try and save her own calf.
Shaking my head, I drove back to the frozen calf for further inspection. It was obvious that the calf had been shelled out and ignored; the inattentive mother never even made an attempt to move in my direction as I examined her dead baby. Back in the truck, I drove toward her and mumbled out loud, “You’re a sorry excuse for a mother. You’ve got to at least try to save your baby in this weather.” She disregarded me.
As I returned to the bale yard to retrieve another bale, I began to try to understand what the problem had been and why there was no evidence that the calf had ever been licked – even once. I’ve owned the cow for five years and my records show that she has always been a good momma. What happened last night? Unrolling the second bale, I began to realize that the dead calf was exceptionally small. In my aha moment, I drove back to the cow.
She was still off by herself, standing by the creek bank when I arrived; ignoring the unrolled hay. This time, I got out of the truck and walked over to the steep, 8-foot bank. Peering over the ledge, I saw a little, black fur-ball curled up against the base of a willow tree that had most surely saved it from slipping into the frigid creek that flowed just inches from the calf. As I slid down the bank to the calf’s side, the mother stuck her head over the edge and gently mooed to the surviving twin. The calf was too cold to respond.
It’s tough for an old man to toss a calf some 8 feet, straight up to safety, but somehow I found the strength and climbed back up myself. I quickly loaded it onto the warm floorboard of the truck, turned up the heat, and headed for home. Judy had prepared some colostrum and, together, we fed it. I continued to haul it in the cab of the truck while I fed at two more places before returning it to its mother. The reunion left the cow licking its calf with such fervor, it could only be interpreted as, “Where have you been? I thought that big truck had taken you away forever.” The tiny calf responded by nursing his momma like he had never eaten before.
I watched the bonding for a few minutes before driving up closer. I rolled down the window and spoke to the old cow. “I’m sorry I called you a bad mother. I should have known there was more to the story.”
I swear, the cow let out a “humph” as she circled around to put herself between the calf and truck before gently nuzzling it away into the shelter of the woods.
