Prairie Spring - Part Two

I apologize for the delay in getting this posted. We are well into our own "Prairie Spring" and calving adventures. 

Last week, we happened upon a heifer in obvious distress. At first, we thought she was already deceased, along with her partially emerged calf, but when we got closer, we saw her blink. And the calf was wiggling his protruding tongue.

We pulled the calf and the heifer had a total prolapse. That is, she expelled her calf bed. I'll spare you the details, but it took two men, four long arms, and a tractor to get the mass inside again. (That sounds terrible, and not how it sounds. If you're familiar with the writings of George MacDonald, you might remember a midwife in one of his novels employing a similar concept for an ailing new mother. Don't quote me on it being George MacDonald that wrote it, though. My memory, you know . . .) 


Sadly, the heifer did eventually expire, but the last I heard, the calf was still alive. As the rest of the story will reveal, spring is full of contradictions . . .

The rest of the story . . .

We headed back to the main herd, the cow following and bawling her displeasure. Then, Dad saw another smudge in the middle of the field, and we veered towards it. This time, there was no calf, just twisted bits of membrane and smears of blood. The cow looked at us with baleful eyes, as if demanding an explanation. How could we explain the she-wolf that had likely killed the calf to feed her own young, the same instinct driving both mothers.

We turned homeward. The cow still followed, mooing loudly, the calf responding with weak bleats. 

At the barn, Dad threw the reins over the saddle, leaving me on the horse while he carried the calf to the house. It was Sam’s job to herd the cow into a holding corral. I scooted forward into the saddle and tightly held the horn. The cow was intent on finding her baby, bawling frantically, but Sam countered her every move, lurching this way and that. I was jolted about, until it felt as though my arms would be wrenched from their sockets. I couldn’t hold on and fell off into a puddle of icy, filthy water.

I yelped and leaped up. With a quick glance at the cow, now in the corral and bellowing with rage, I ran for the house.

Dad was by the woodstove, rubbing the calf with sacking. He laughed when he saw me and pulled me close, dragging off my sopping clothes. He rubbed me dry with the same piece of sacking. I was soon warm, and so Dad left, taking with him the revived calf, to reunite it with its mournful mama.

I dozed, warmed by the stove’s heat and the love in my dad’s eyes. As I drifted off, I thought of the contrariness and contradictions of spring. Birth and death. Storms and sunshine. Mothers . . . and fathers. I couldn’t have spoken the words yet, but I had already learned that for each new life, a seed must die. And with hardship, there comes renewal. 

Deep thoughts for such a little boy, yet they would carry me through every season of my life.

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