This evening, I’m listening to the insistent bawl of a cow who doesn’t yet know that her calf will never answer back again.
Cow #16 calved in mid-June, giving birth to a calf every bit as white as herself. The pair spent the calf’s first few weeks in a pen by the barn on account of a limp the cow had developed. Once the cow was feeling sturdier, we let the pair out to be with the rest of the herd in the lush, green pastures.
At first, when I would move the herd, I always had to hustle that matching white pair along. The cow still walked slow and the calf seemed hesitant to move with the herd. I thought he just wasn’t used to herd life yet. Later, the cow would move with the herd, but she always left her calf behind, lying apart from the herd. I would have to go in search of the little white calf and walk him to the new paddock the herd was already settling into. Every time, I watched him carefully, trying to spot a limp, an odd breath, or anything that would indicate illness. Nothing ever stood as a blatantly wrong, though.
Yesterday, I moved the herd again. I forgot to check for the slow little calf and thought I’d got all the animals moved. Then, as Dad and I passed by the pasture on our way to haul bales, we spotted him lying next to the fence, a good quarter mile from the herd. Dad got out of the truck and pestered the calf until he stood up. We instantly saw that something was very wrong. A huge bulge hung beneath the calf’s belly, unlike anything I’d seen before.
Our first thought was navel ill – an infection of the navel that can cause the navel and joints to swell. Navel ill, if caught early enough, can be treated with antibiotics. Untreated, it is a death sentence. We’d have to bring the calf home.
There’s been so much rain lately, that parts of the pasture we can usually traverse in the side-by-side are now impassable. I waded through water to where the calf was, while Dad drove around to the gate on the far side of the pasture. I would have to walk the calf the quarter mile through soggy grass and then we could use the side-by-side to push the reunited cow and calf across higher land to the farm yard.
The plan worked well, but as I walked behind the calf, I couldn’t help but think that this just didn’t look like navel ill. I was starting to think it might be hernia, and a severe one at that. Dad was starting to think so, too. Once the pair were back in the pen that had housed them in the calf’s infancy, I called the vet’s office. A hernia is not an emergency, so they scheduled an appointment for Thursday afternoon. That done, Dad and I returned to hauling hay until we got rained out.
Today, I was on my own. Dad exercised his rights as a semi-retired farmer and went golfing with his brothers – in the rain. I finished hauling bales (finally!), moved some cows in a rented pasture, brought home my water buggy to exhibit it at Open Farm Days, and generally did productive things.
Just before quitting for supper, I went to check the calf. I found him lying next to the barn, unwilling to get up and breathing oddly, as though it hurt to breathe. This wasn’t something that could wait for Thursday. I called Dad, who had just arrived home from golfing, for a second opinion. When he came, we got the calf up. He wobbled and stumbled about, clearly in pain.
I called the vet again. Of course, it was after regular working hours, so the answering machine gave me the name and number of the vet on call. I called Dr. Jason and explained the situation. He agreed to meet me at the clinic in 40 minutes.
I had thought to go alone, but once we loaded the calf on the trailer, Dad was ready to hop in the truck and come along. That farmer curiosity is a little too powerful to overcome sometimes.
When we arrived at the clinic, Dr. Jason was waiting. His first question once the calf was in the squeeze chute was, “Have you seen this guy pee lately?” We had not. A quick examination and needle stuck into the bulge to find out what was in there confirmed his suspicions.
Apparently, sometimes a steer (a castrated male bovine) can get urinary stones. These stones can cause a tear in the urethra, which causes the urine to back up into the space under the belly, causing a swelling, lethargy, and other symptoms I kind of wish Dr. Jason had kept to himself. Usually, this happens in much older steers. In those cases, a surgery can be done to reroute the undamaged portion of the urethra, so the steer can urinate out the back end until it has recovered enough to be slaughtered. However, in this case, because the calf was so young and had so much growing to do before it would be fully grown and ready to slaughter, the vet thought that such a surgery would not hold up for so long a time. He advised euthanasia.
Frustrated to lose a calf, but glad to have an answer and a
clear path forward, I agreed and the vet took care of that nasty business for
me. I returned home with an empty
trailer, having disposed of the body appropriately. Now there is a large, white cow bawling for
her baby, wanting to rejoin the herd, but not wanting to leave him behind.










