This morning, I
saddled a dependable horse and headed for morning rounds at the
calving meadow. I want to finish checking on the cows a little
early so I can drive up the road to my neighbor’s house for
the Shell Ladies’ Coffee. (Shell itself may boast a
population of only 50, but we’ve had gatherings with 20 women
in attendance.)
On such a beautiful morning, its hard to
hurry. And anyway, hurrying is the thing you just can’t do,
if you’re going to do this job right. The morning and evening
routine of observation is really just a conversation with cows.
I’ve known some of them for years, same as with my neighbors.
Some are agreeable and kind, and some have suffered more than
others.
Every day I hope for one of those perfect
mornings: No problems. Some ranchers believe in letting only the
strong survive, but at our place a live calf is always worth more
than a dead one. Anyway, I work cheap. Today, though, if things
take too long I won’t make it to the coffee, so I’m
keeping my fingers crossed.
Over at the fence corner a
lone cow is just cleaning up her brand-new baby. A big golden eagle
sits high in a dead tree above her, fluffing his feathers in the
sun and waiting for the moment he can hop down for the afterbirth.
When he sees me, he stretches his wings wide, wide, but he
doesn’t fly away.
In a patch of willows is another
steaming wet calf, not up yet, mother cow licking him and crooning
to him, “Come to life, come to life, oh, such a beautiful
baby.” Aha, I think. I saw this cow last night, on the prowl,
looking for the private room. Looks like she found just the right
spot, and everything’s fine.
Cow talk is easy to
understand, even for people. An old grouchy cow bellows and shakes
her head, warning me to stay away from her family. A different cow
has seen me and decided just to head away. She moos to her calf:
“Come on now. Stay close to me. No fooling around. I mean
it.” He’s not sure how to use his new legs, but he
obeys.
Once, I stole a calf from a cow that was old and
thin, her milk useless. She loved her baby, but she was starving
him to death, and I took him to the corral and grafted him onto a
heifer whose calf had died. The old cow stood for days where
she’d last seen her calf and bawled the pain of every
heartbroken mother of every species. I felt guilty and ashamed each
time I rode by … even knowing “what was best.”
Yesterday, I found a dead calf. The cow was there, still
licking the little body, still trying to coax it to life. I hate
this every time — death and pain and sorrow — even knowing, as I
do, that death is part of this business, and part of life. Confused
and worried, the cow snorted and shook her head at me. I
didn’t know what had gone wrong, but I knew we had an extra
calf at the barn, a twin, which is against the odds in cattle. With
my rope, I dragged the dead calf behind my horse and the cow
followed, anxious beyond fear. ”He’s alive!” she
bawled. “He’s moving!” With skill, experience and
also some drugs, we swapped a live calf for the dead one — a happy
ending.
Today, an old prancer who calved a few days ago
back in the draw brings her baby out for the first time, showing
him off to the rest of the girls. “Lookee here,” she
says. ”Don’t you girls wish you had a fine little bull
calf like this one?” He travels a few feet behind her, but
she doesn’t look back. She walks like a queen, head high,
commanding him to follow.
I’ve meandered through
the pasture for an hour or so, and it looks like everything is okay
for now. I’ll make my rounds again this evening and
there’ll be a few more new babies by then. I glance at my
watch as I head my horse toward home.
Looks like I can
make it to the Coffee where I’ll join my other lady friends
and hear their stories — laughs, sorrows, hopes. Not so different,
really, everybody doing the best we can. There’s nothing
quite like coffee with the ladies.
Mary Flitner
is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of
High Country News (hcn.org). She ranches and
writes in Greybull, Wyoming, where calving has just been replaced
by branding.
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