“Hey Doc,” the voice on the other side of the line says. “I’ve got a dead in pen four. Never treated him, and he’s got to be the third one this week. Could we post him and figure out what’s going on around here?”

Come April, we’re going to know whether or not we were ready for calving season. I’m not talking about having supplies, feed or the calving area ready, I mean each of us will personally feel it in our backs, arms and legs if we we’re not in physical condition to handle calving season.

Normally, something that is 6 pounds 11 ounces doesn’t slow me down much. Throw it in my backpack while hunting, I hardly notice it, or add that to a calf’s weight, it doesn’t change the difficulty of the cesarean section much. But when it has big blue-gray eyes and thinks sleeping at night is for the weak, then it has my attention.

In country music, picking wildflowers is a euphemism for the kind of shenanigans my 8- and 5-year-old daughters know nothing about. Their earnest cries to pick wildflowers is completely innocent and 100% literal.

If you haven’t heard by now, the Great Plains is a bit short on beef cattle veterinarians. Somehow, we’re having trouble recruiting young folks to go $200,000 in debt for a job that pays less than half that, so they can have the privilege of being called in the middle of the night to work on cantankerous cows.