For anyone who hasn't experienced life on a ranch, perhaps the memoir shared here will provide a glimpse into the struggle to protect and/or save the lives that depend on us each and every day. Nothing about taking care of livestock is taken for granted; would that more people realize the deep bond that connects man/woman and beast!
Sometimes it's a hard drama, especially when a heifer has trouble. The following (true) event occurred in the early years of our marriage, before I had experienced the frustrating and disappointing loss of a calf or even a young mother cow. The loss is not one anyone accepts easily.
I wrote about this episode a few weeks after it happened -- perhaps as my way of processing and letting go -- and revised it several years later, so I am thrilled to see this story finally "find its home" in the anthology recently released by TwoDot/Globe, entitled ANKLE HIGH AND KNEE DEEP. It's one of the four I submitted.
If I might add, as editor and collector of the anthology/ volume, I was thrilled that the editors/publishers at TwoDot/Globe Pequot also loved the piece.
Birth
Gail L. Jenner
“Oh, Doug, is it going to be
all right?”
“I don’t know. It don’t want
to come. Maybe the calf is turned.” My husband pulled off his long-sleeved
shirt and dipped his hands into the bucket of soapy water before turning to
her. His hands entered easily, but the cow resisted when he pushed his arms in
up to the elbows. “Come on, Mama.”
As the cow strained against
the nylon halter I held taut, I swallowed the bile that burned my throat. At
the same time, a series of groans rose up out of her throat, then her legs,
shaking uncontrollably, gave up beneath her swollen body. She dropped to the
straw with an ominous thud.
“Is the calf turned the right
way?” My words, barely spoken, tinkled like coins in the empty barn. I dropped
the end of the halter. This cow wasn’t going anywhere.
Doug hesitated, brows drawn
together, tongue moving across chapped lips. “The head’s okay, but one leg
don’t seem to be.”
“But will it live?”
He grunted, trying to wipe
his chin against his shoulder. “Not unless we get it out soon.” He withdrew his
hands and stood for a moment. He glanced up at me. “We'll have to pull it.”
With bloodied fingers, he
picked up the length of chain he'd dragged out of the pickup earlier. The links
of the mechanical stretcher clanked noisily.
I frowned as he circled and
fastened one end of the chain around a small pair of hooves barely protruding
from the young cow’s enraged cavity. Still down and panting, she twisted her
head back until that the white sockets of her eyes bulged.
I held my protest. I knew
Doug was doing all he could.
“When I start to pull,” he
ordered, handing me one end of the chain, “make sure it don't slip off.”
The hard links rattled as
Doug pulled on the lever – once, twice; the sound sent chills down my back,
reminding me of fingernails scraping against a chalkboard.
Doug yanked on the pulley
again. “Hold it steady!”
The chain grew taut, but the
calf didn't budge. The cow’s belly ballooned with another contraction and she
gasped.
I shrank back as she bawled
again. “Oh, poor Mama,” I whispered. Why was life such a struggle?
Disgusted, Doug dropped the
pulley contraption and shoved his hands back through the slimy opening, leaning
forward to negotiate a better hold on the buried calf. Pearls of sweat trailed
down his lean cheeks and they shimmered in the lopsided beams of amber light
provided by his old pickup’s headlights.
He scowled as he probed and
prodded, pushed and pulled.
Night finally edged in, the
darkness filling the barn like spilled ink. Dinner hour long forgotten, I could
not have moved away from the young mother even if I’d wanted to. I was still new to marriage and this ranching
life, and I hadn’t realized how tenuous life could be.
“Hey!” Doug interrupted my
thoughts. “Give me that hammer and chisel.”
“Oh,” I groaned, reaching for
the tools he had brought – just in case. Then I turned away, unable to watch.
Only in impossible situations did a farmer or vet choose to split a young cow’s
pelvis.
Hopefully it would heal.
“I have to,” Doug whispered.
I nodded, touched by his attempt to ease my discomfort.
The hammer hit dully; the job
was done. Throwing the tools aside, he moved swiftly. He reached for the calf's
hooves and tugged. Like a soft ripe banana, the bloody body of the bald-faced
calf oozed out onto the damp straw.
Dropping to his knees, my
husband wiped the afterbirth from the calf's nose and tongue, but the tongue
dangled like a fat pink tube sock, and its eyes stared blankly into the empty
night.
Taking a quick, deep breath,
Doug pressed his mouth over the calf’s. Sealing both nostrils, he blew breath
after breath into the limp body.
I waited, tears slipping
unnoticed down my cheeks.
Time passed cruelly.
Finally Doug leaned back and
frowned. His eyes reflected my fear. “Too late. Too damn late.”
No! I took a step forward.
You have to live. You can’t die. I held my breath. I felt Doug exhale slowly,
but he avoided my glance.
And the cow, exhausted, lay,
panting, her head flopped over in the straw as if she'd turned away from the
awful sight.
Doug dragged the calf aside,
his own face dark with unspoken disappointment. Then he returned to the cow.
He rested one palm lightly on
her hip, but she didn't move as he inspected her and cleaned her off; neither
did she flinch when he gave her an injection of antibiotic from the small black
bag he always carried with him.
But I couldn’t stop the
tears. Turning slowly, I looked out at the stars scattered like fool’s gold
across the black dome of sky. Life. Death.
I turned back to the young
cow.
Doug was massaging her back
and shoulders, mindless of the cold air against his wet, stained arms and
hands, compassion written across his weather-stained features. “I'm sorry, old
gal,” he whispered.
Slowly he coaxed her to her
feet and pulled off the halter. She trembled, but seemed to gather her strength
in the next moments.
It was then his glance
trapped mine.
I winced.
The cow bawled.
He smiled tentatively. There
would be another birth, his eyes said.
Perhaps another death, I
wanted to retort.
Perhaps. But always, life
prevails.
I hope you have enjoyed this excerpt from the recent release, ANKLE HIGH AND KNEE DEEP.
For more on ANKLE HIGH AND KNEE DEEP, check it out on amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0762792116/#_swftext_Swf
