Today's Trauma

Phil came back after checking the cows at midday. "Clara's missing."

This was especially bitter for me, as I had gone to bed last night, exhausted by the exertions of the day, with a nagging feeling that I should have brought Clara and her mother to the dry lot before the baby's first rainfall, which fell overnight. Phil and I had actually tried to walk Bianca over the day after she birthed, hoping her daughter would follow properly, but Clara was too disoriented, too little, to follow, and the distraught mama cow was intractable. At some point, the stress of trying to walk a stubborn cow a half mile, while also gently steering an uncollared and wobbly calf, became too much. We left it for another day.

I woke up convinced that yesterday was the proper day. But, really, in the dark after planting, it hadn't seemed reasonable.

And so now we had a missing calf, perhaps wandered several farms away in the inch of rainfall, perhaps chased by dogs or shot by hunters.

I hate thinking about losses to our herd. Each animal is so full of potential; each has such a precious pedigree (at least to me); each has been a gift.

I walked through the woods that bordered the neighbor's field, calling Clara and listening, wishing, for an answering call. I even checked Hog Creek, hoping she hadn't stumbled there and drowned.

Phil took the truck and circled the 15 acre field, cutting through sections, driving carefully through the tall, dried grass.

We converged after some time, having seen no signs of her, having heard no peeps.

I was ready to go and ask the neighbors, far-flung though they may be, to keep an eye out for her. Phil pointed out that Bianca, by far our most vocal cow, seemed unworried, but her udder seemed quite full, and she was devouring large mouthfuls of newly delivered hay. Would a hungry mama really be that worried about a missing calf? Wouldn't she need to satisfy her own needs before she would grow alarmed? Wouldn't her bag need to fill and become uncomfortable before she started calling?

I joined Phil in the truck and we headed toward a different section of woods, crossing a part of a field we hadn't been on before. Phil had just finished saying how uncomfortable he felt driving through the tall grass, where visibility for a small red calf might be slim to none, when he said, "Whoa!" and stopped the truck instantly.

At the side of the truck, actually touching the running board, was the recumbent calf. Why she hadn't jumped up when the one ton dually approached I still don't know. It wasn't until I had exited the cab and come around to the driver's side that she jumped away from us—heading under the cab. Phil, with his quick hands, grabbed her, and I carried her on my lap as we drove her to our dry lot.

As I rather suspected, sitting in the arms of a strange person in a truck's cab while roaring up a slope and along a bouncy gravel road was enough for the calf to come loose. First the yellow, milky poop of an infant, followed soon by a thorough drenching from the same place, meant that we were both glad for the ride to come to an end.

The image of that baby, lying serenely in the direct path of the back wheels; the knowledge that the front tires must have missed her delicate legs by literal inches; Phil's unbelievable vision that spotted the calf practically underneath his window at the last second before tragedy ... all of this was almost too much to handle.

In the future, we'll pay better attention to the actions of the mother. Bianca was unworried; we could have been, too. When we walked over to bring her to the dry lot, she was quite unwilling to go with us. She knew where she had left her baby, and she wasn't interested in going in the opposite direction. But a half hour of tugging brought mother and baby together.

For the moment, peace returns.

And, finally, on a completely different note: Joe has recently begun to make himself mustaches from tape. I don't know why. It seems like a painful method to create an unusual facial hair style. But it definitely makes me smile.