I wrote this story over six years ago, after being inspired by a friend as he described a similar experience with his own father. These days, this is "everyday" life on the ranch; even as I write this, The Cowboy is out on his horse riding through several herds of cows. There are 3000 cows and first-time calvers due between now and mid-June, so it's a full time job checking.
As in the story, there are mishaps. Calves coming breech. Over-sized calves. Twins. Some can be helped, and for others, as in the case of opportunistic predators, it's too late. And last night, after a day of wind and rain, we had late winter snow flurries, adding to the mix of dangers to newborns.
As always, I hope you enjoy the glimpse of ranch life.
* * * * *
“Rob, wake up.”
I opened my eyes and tried to focus on Dad’s face, inches from my own.
“Let’s go, Cowboy. Time to check the cows.”
In the gray dawn, I could see the wisps of Dad’s breath. I burrowed my six-year old self deeper under the blankets, reluctant to leave the warm bed. I stuck out a foot and knew there was nothing for it but to leap out all at once. I jerked my stiff jeans on over my long johns and buttoned my shirt with uncooperative fingers.
Dad was stoking the woodstove, firelight flickering on his face as he shoved in pitchy chunks of spruce. I huddled beside him, watching sparks and flames dancing together. I wanted to stay for a few more moments, absorbing the heat, but it was time to go.
Morning was a crimson flush on the horizon. I followed Dad to the barn, avoiding dirty slush and ice-crusted puddles. While Dad saddled Sam, his big bay gelding, I tried to keep warm by hopping from one foot to the other. Then, he hoisted himself into the saddle and pulled me up behind.
It was springtime, but spring is a fickle season on the northern prairie. New grass creates a green blush on the far meadows, and poplar twigs bulge with the promise of leaves, but a sudden snow squall can obliterate a barb wire fence ten paces away. A late freeze can prove deadly, especially for calves born on the open prairie. On this spring morning, we were going to see how our cows had fared during the night.
The cows were huddled together on the lower end of the calving pasture. We moved among them, Dad murmuring gently. A few cows got to their feet, and others milled about, lowing softly. Nothing was amiss, so Dad scanned the field for loners, a sign of pending or recent birth.
Sure enough, there was a shadow halfway up the field. We approached the cow carefully, not wanting to disturb her if she was labouring well.
The cow was nosing at a shadow on the ground. Inadvertently, she had birthed the calf into a pool of meltwater. Dad dismounted and squatted, drawing the calf out of the water. It was limp and cold but breathing. Dad slung the calf across Sam’s withers and remounted.
. . . to be continued . . .
