Much to my delight, March had trotted into the calendar in fairly serene and lamblike fashion. The warmer and drier-than-expected winter had spilled over into early spring, and despite the concern for summer water that continually lurked in the back of my mind, I was loving what the weather gods were serving.
In large measure because of the mild weather, other than the big smoky heifer that had calved early and apparently disposed of the calf in a location that has yet to be discovered, my calving season was off to a remarkably pleasant start. The heifers were popping out small, lively babies and taking to motherhood as if they knew what they were supposed to be doing. I barely had to even think about the older cows except to tag the new calves when they showed up on the feed ground. The baby calves were cute, healthy and plentiful, and I was living my best life. I knew it wouldn’t last.
For a three-day stretch, my southern Idaho March returned to the fury for which her predecessors of previous years had become legendary. Overnight temperatures plummeted into the teens, and a genuine blizzard came flying in with all the fierce and dreadful majesty of a hungry and desperate lion. I didn’t feel the full wrath of the storm like my neighbors on the west side of the mountains in the Raft River Valley did, but Mother Nature delivered her message to me well enough.
I spent a couple of nights mostly out with the first-time mamas, surviving on cheap granola bars, Dr Pepper and the occasional 20-minute nap. Despite first-calf heifers’ propensity for stupidity and inane behavior, they and I weathered the literal and proverbial storm and came out the other side with only minor literal and proverbial wounds. I had to tube a couple of calves with warm colostrum supplement, but other than that, everyone mothered up just as they should have.
Amid my obsession to babysit the heifers and their babies, I had, mostly out of necessity, neglected to give much attention to the older cows. I just had to trust that they could handle things on their own, and they did a stellar job through the first two days and nights of the nastiness. With the bad stretch of the cold front waning in the early daylight hours of the third day, and the temperatures not nearly as frigid as they'd been the previous two days, I took a load of hay out to the main cow herd.
While I fed, and as most of the cows filed up to the feed ground, as is my habit, I scanned the sagebrush corners and crannies and draws and swales for any of the old girls that didn’t feel inclined to come to breakfast, a sure sign of their answering the call to motherhood in some fashion. Not surprisingly, there were a few cows that remained in the hinterlands, declining the invitation to a triticale hay breakfast.
After I kicked the hay off of the old flatbed, I made my way to where a couple of cows stood vigil over their newborns. As I drew closer, I was relieved to see the first newborn shake his head as his mother nervously danced around him in a warning ritual intended to keep me away. She was more bluff than substance, and I was able to tag and band the little guy with little interference from his protective and well-intentioned dam. Fifty yards to the west, I found another cautious mother, but her baby lay motionless on the frozen ground, as dead as the morning was cold.
My remarks to the cow would require editing to qualify for a PG-13 rating, so I’ll skip that part altogether. I cussed her for her choice of calving areas, especially considering that I had scattered several bales of straw up in the sheltered corner of the field by the old orchard the night before.
I checked on a few more cows as I made my way to the concrete water trough at the extreme north end of the field where a lone cow stood. The feeling of dread I’d felt only minutes earlier returned as I approached the lone cow. I’m not a licensed veterinarian, but it didn’t take me long to diagnose the condition of her dead calf. Again, I cursed the cow and the schizophrenic nature of March weather. Again, I quickly worked through the dozen or so stages of cowboy grief, and again I regained my composure and acknowledged that nature is sometimes as unforgiving as she is life-giving.
I made my way back to where most of the cows were lined up eating on the feed ground. I’d seen 3- or 4-day-old calves that needed to be tagged, and I always liked to drive through the cows anyway. Despite the disappointments that always show up at calving time, there’s definitely something therapeutic about wandering among the healthy and happy mamas and babies. On my way back to the main herd, I came across a cow that, 30 minutes earlier, I had noticed was on the verge of parturition.
Even from several hundred yards away, I could see that she had calved and was up and cleaning off her newborn, which was gently kicking and flopping, as I would expect a newborn calf to do. I slowly approached the scene with little to no concern that anything would be amiss.
Not wanting to disturb the new pair, I kept my distance and drove on by, but after I passed, something nudged me to stop and take a closer look. Though the cow was dutifully, almost nonchalantly, licking and cleaning her new baby, just as our old friend/nemesis nature would predicate, nearly the entire placenta still engulfed the front half of the calf, from the shoulders to the tip of his nose. It wasn’t just a thin membrane. It was as if the calf were trapped in a thick 20-ply, water-filled sack. I jumped out of the truck, and despite the snot-blowing, bellowing, head shaking protests of the cow, was able to pierce the thick membranes and free the calf’s head. The little guy shook his head and gratefully sucked in his first breath of Idaho’s fresh, high desert air.
Now, it’s possible that the old cow would have cleared the fluid-filled membranes away before the calf suffocated. It’s also possible that the calf would have died before she got that far. I have no way of knowing what might have been. As I too took in a big breath of my familiar Idaho air and let out a sigh of relief, it struck me that I may well have drawn some unfair and incorrect conclusions regarding the two dead calves from earlier that morning. With no thought of another option, I blamed the cows’ poor choice of calving areas for the demise of their calves when it is entirely plausible that the cause of death could have been something other than exposure to the cold.
Even though I doubt that the cows held my harsh words directed at them against me, in my mind I apologized to the old girls. In their own bovine way, they were suffering from the loss just as much as I was.
In a much more profound way, I was suddenly cognizant of my rush to judgment of people and situations. How often, I then wondered, have I made unfair judgments of people when I’ve seen what I assumed to be the whole picture, but may have only been a fraction of the truth? I realized that I probably often don’t know what silent suffering someone may be enduring. Thank you, Mother Nature, for your harsh and tender lessons.
