Calving season was upon me. I was just finishing up my last hour-long run through the cows and heifers. It had been a cold night, and with 3 inches of snow on the ground, I dared not leave anything to chance. Although the forecast called for springtime temperatures in the coming days, the weather of the last few nights did little to boost my confidence in the prospect of flowers and sunshine. As was usually the case for me this time of year, a good night’s rest was but a foggy memory and a distant and hoped-for dream.
I glanced down at the bright green of the numbers of the clock on the dash of the pickup as I pulled up to the house. It read 5:07. Although the sun was still at least an hour-and-a-half from showing even the slightest hint of light over the mountain range to the east, I figured that was just about right. I had just enough time to throw some grain to the chickens, fill a few water troughs and feed the horses before I headed to town to help weigh and tag the latest iteration of FFA and 4-H project calves for the coming county fair that was a mere five months away.
I scarcely had time for this. It was the same thing I told myself every year, but once I made it to the chute at the saleyard where parents, kids and calves from all over the county gathered to kick off another cycle, my heart warmed to the chore. It was one of those rituals of ranch country that made pleasant memories that could easily be drawn from when the gray clouds of life’s stress and anxiety threatened. It was always good to commiserate and cajole with old friends and rivals from the other side of the mountain.
Regardless of what awaited me when I returned home, such activities always seemed to fill my cup and allowed me to return to the more serious matters with a renewed appetite for whatever life in general and calving season in particular might throw at me. And regardless of the benefits I might garner from a little bit of volunteer work, it was the right thing to do.
I got home from the weigh-in at around noon. As far as I could tell, disaster had not struck in my absence. The sun was shining and the day, along with my attitude, had warmed considerably. Most of the snow was gone from the upper pasture where I kept the largest contingent of cows, and as I tagged a few new calves, I was feeling like I just might be living the good life. I finished feeding, and as I headed for the gate, I noticed the old cow in the far corner of the field that never came up to feed. I was hardly concerned. It was normal behavior for a cow about ready to calve. Still, something seemed a little off, so I made a mental note to return in an hour or two to check on the old girl.
I grabbed a sandwich and sat down on the couch and closed my eyes to allow for a blissful 15-minute nap. It was a blessed supplement to the three hours of sleep from the previous night. My 15 minutes turned into 25 before I forced myself up from the couch to go check on the old cow.
What I found upon my return to the calving pasture was not what I had hoped for. The cow had made her way from the far lower corner back up to the fence near the road. She was obviously in distress but with no visible sign of a calf save for a small tail that showed itself directly beneath the cow’s own tail. The calf was coming breach, and it took me all of a few seconds to realize I needed help. I walked up to the road where I could find a signal and left a message for one of my ever-patient veterinarian friends who promptly called me back and told me he’d meet me at his clinic in town in two hours.
It took some doing, but we got the cow to her feet, and though she was on the fight, we miraculously got her loaded into the trailer. Just before I slammed the door to the trailer, one of my neighbors drove by. Recognizing the predicament before me, he reached behind the seat of his pickup and produced his favorite 30-30 coyote gun. “Do you want to save some time and money?” he asked in only a half-joking manner.
I seriously considered the option but opted against it because I figured trying to save the cow was the right thing to do.
I made it into the clinic, and though the patient was “plum give out,” we managed to get her to her feet and into the head-catch where my good friend and veterinarian, Scott, gave the cow a spinal block and diligently labored for the better part of two hours to extract the calf from the cow. Ultimately, he succeeded, though the final result, which came out in pieces, resembled more of a puzzle than a calf. Somehow, I still had a live cow, though.
We left her at the clinic, with hopes that she’d survive the night. The glimmer of hope was still shining when Scott texted me on Sunday morning to tell me she was still alive. We made arrangements to meet later that afternoon to load her up and bring her home. As I arrived at the clinic and backed up to the corner gate, I caught a glimpse of Scott in my rearview mirror. The almost crestfallen look in his eye, though not a surprise, told me all I needed to know. The old cow had died. In that moment, for just a flash, I second-guessed myself. It can hardly be argued that I would have been better served if I’d taken advantage of my neighbor and his 30-30.
Time is money, and money is money. I appeared to have just wasted quite a bit of both. I’ve made similar “mistakes” many times in the past. There’s little doubt that I’ll probably make more in the future. But I believe there’s another way to look at it. And I hope I’m justified in my thinking. Even though there may be little apparent and immediate benefit from some quixotic decision or activity, I think sometimes it’s OK to do something just because it’s the right thing to do.
