Rough Morning

It is 7:30 on Saturday morning.  I am still in my pajamas, bundled in my heavy overalls and work coat, fighting through drifts that weren't there the last time I was outside.  It is time to check the cows to see if any have calved or are calving.  Actually, it's past time, but I figure everything ought to be okay.  I'll do a quick check and get back inside before my hands get cold.  I neglected to wear my heavy mitts, but for the short time I'll be out here, my gloves with suffice.  The last time I checked, none of the cows seemed close to calving.

I check the cows by the hay feeder first.  If they're eating they're probably okay, but you never know.  Those ones are all fine.  Next, I turn my attention to the far end of the corral, where most of the cows are lying contentedly on the straw pack, chewing their cud.  A few are standing.  One is lying off to the side, where a puddle or ice patch always forms, depending on the temperature.  Right now, it's an ice patch.  I briefly wonder why this cow - no, it's a heifer - is lying way down there, but she's not exactly apart from the others and she's still at least half on the straw.

I walk closer to the group of cows, looking for any signs of a calf or any cow that might be calving.  The heifer that is lying by the ice patch is ignoring me.  Her back is to me and she is looking intently at something that I can't see.

She doesn't have a calf there, does she?  No way.

I walk even closer.  There is definitely something beside that heifer.

A few steps more.  It's a calf.  And it's not moving.

Watching the mother closely, I walk right up to the calf.  The mother stands up and gets out of the way.  She's not the protective type, apparently.

The calf is stretched out on the ice, mouth slightly open, covered in snow.  There is no doubt in my mind that it is dead, but I bend down and nudge it's head to be sure.

Yes, it's dead.  It hasn't been for long.  The body is frozen, but hasn't become stiff yet.

I want to swear.  I can remember only one other time in my life when I wanted to swear.  Choking back the temptation, I leave the calf and walk around the rest of the cows, finishing my check.  No one else needs me right now, so I go into the barn to get out of the wind (my hands are starting to feel a chill), and call my dad.  It's his calf.  He tells me to put it in the calf sled, pull it out of the corral and leave it until he gets there a few a hours later.  I was going to do that anyway.

The calf sled is back across the yard, by the dog kennel, because I usually use it to take straw from the barn to the dog houses.  The dogs chewed the rope handle off of the sled a while ago and I replaced it with some twine.  I soon discover that I made the handle a bit too short, but I don't stop to fix it.  I just want to get this task over with.

Trudging back through the snow, I pull the sled into the corral and over to the calf.  The mother once again gets out of the way.  She doesn't want to leave her baby, but it's like she thinks I can help it.

I ignore her, still keeping one eye on her and all the rest of the cows, of course, because I don't want to die today.  Hoping the calf won't be frozen to the ground, I pull on it's front legs.  It is frozen down.

Sighing, I slowly work to pry the frozen body from the frozen ground.  Fortunately, it is not frozen down too badly.  Like I said, the calf hadn't been dead very long.  Maybe an hour, maybe two.  I should have checked earlier.

Once the calf is released from the ice that holds it to the cold ground, I lift it into the sled.  First the front end, then the back end.  The mother watches my efforts with interest.  Stupid animal.  She should have calved on the straw.  I should have come out earlier.  I could have put her in the barn before she calved.

I sigh away the tears that threaten.  I learned a long time ago that it's not worth it to cry over animals.

Leaving the dead calf in the quonset, where dogs and coyotes aren't likely to get at it, I return to the house.  Maybe later I'll do a necropsy on the calf to determine if it was born dead or if it died later.  I hope it was born dead.

In the house I pull off my boots, coat, and overalls.  I rub warmth back into my hands - I should have worn the heavy mitts - and go upstairs to change into my work clothes.  I have already decided to skip breakfast, so there's no point keeping my pajamas on.  Normally I would hate to skip breakfast, but there's something about prying the frozen body of a calf off of a patch of ice that ruins one's appetite.

I might as well just get chores done and then I can spend the rest of the day inside, only going outside periodically to check the cows.  I begin to plan my day.  I can do some baking, prepare my Sunday School lesson for tomorrow, do that necropsy if I can find the sharp knife - oh, and Mom is coming over this afternoon so we can discuss landscaping options for my parents' new house.

Little do I know that while doing chores I will discover that none of the cattle waterers are working.  I will spend time and energy trying to get just one fixed, flipping breakers and pouring warm water over the waterers in an effort to unfreeze them - if indeed they are frozen.  I will finally give up with the knowledge that the cows can eat snow until Dad gets home from his curling tournament.

Those tears that were so easily sighed away earlier will run freely down my cold cheeks.  I should have checked the cows earlier.  Why aren't the waterers working?  Why don't I know how to fix them?  Dad should have taught me this before now.  My frustrations and mental accusations will build up to be released in tears and sobs, in between glances at the driveway to make sure no neighbours are dropping in that might see me crying.

Eventually, my dad will come home, fix the problem (which is in the pump house, not at the waterers), and leave me slightly calmer.  Mom will feed me lunch and we will have our landscaping discussion.  I will get some baking done and prepare my Sunday School lesson.  The necropsy will wait for another day.

Every farmer has rough days, when it seems like everything breaks or goes wrong.  Those days are frustrating, but the worst are the ones that start rough, because when you've discovered deep drifts, a dead calf, and three waterers that are down for the count, and it's only 9:00 in the morning, there is no light at the end of that tunnel.