Random Status Report

The trickery worked.  We jacketed the calf, which (skip to the next paragraph if you’re squeamish) means skinning the dead calf and putting that hide onto the orphan calf ~ four holes are cut in the corners of the hide for the orphan’s legs to pass through; this keeps the hide anchored across her back.

Mama cows know their calf through sight and sound but confirm it through scent, and jacketing confuses the mother enough to let the new calf nurse.  Once the orphan calf has its new mother’s milk coursing through its body for a day or two, the calf begins to smell like her, becomes hers, and the jacket can come off.  This mama is wholly devoted to her new baby.

Oreo, NICU baby, is the princess of the herd.  One would never know, looking at her now, how tenuous her first days were.  She’s strong and playful and curious, chasing chickens, ringleader of the calves.

I made this, following the cold recipe she links to near the bottom of her post and it is AMAZING, like distractingly good, like I was walking into walls because the only thing my consciousness could register was the deliciousness of shrub in my mouth.

Snippets: The Agony & The Ecstasy

I’ve been writing.
Manic stretches where my pen can barely keep up with my brain alternating with staring at a blank page for hours and doodling in the margins.

A calf was born strange, there was something structurally off about her, her legs were weird and she couldn’t hold her chin up to nurse.  So I’ve been milking her mother (NOT FUN. CHEATING ON DAISY!) and bottle feeding her, and trying to teach her how to nurse on her mom.  She was such a sweet little thing. She died today. I think it was inevitable but I still can see her face so perfectly in my mind.

Another cow had twins last week and, as is customary, only took to one calf and abandoned the other.  That motherless calf is also on the bottle (Daisy’s milk) but we are hoping to introduce her to the mother that is now calf-less.  It takes a bit of trickery but results in happy pairs.

Fingers crossed.
Off to go feed cows.
And the Farmily (all are well).
And then write more (or doodle).

Good Things

organic strawberries + cream from a cow who loves me

I blended it up and had it for dinner in my outdoor tub last night.

It’s the little things.

And also the big things!  My first (only) angus heifer had her first baby yesterday!  Remember this story?  The calf that 16 barreled down the mountain for, through fences and over cattle guards to return to, was a girl and Mike gave her to me for Christmas that year.  She grew up to be the most gorgeous heifer ever ~ she is the femme fatale of angus cows.  Short hair, round little body, very distinct face… Her name is Star.

Star inherited her mother’s disregard for cattle guards, but while 16 only crossed them out of maternal duty, Star walks the cattle guard daily to go to a neighbor’s abandoned field to graze.  We knew she was getting close to calving, so Mike and I locked her in the corral two days ago so she wouldn’t have her calf on the county road ~ sometimes heifers don’t know what to do with their first calf and walk off and leave them, and sometimes they have trouble with the birth ~ it’s always good to keep a close eye on them in case they need help.

Not so with Star, on either count.  She calved at three in the afternoon and was instantly, obsessively, in love with her baby (also a girl!).  Also the noisiest mother I have ever seen, honking (there’s no other way to describe the noise she was making ~ a flashback to her uncle Ricardo?) at her calf between licks.  The calf was up and sucking right away and then bounced around on wobbly legs, exploring the corral as Star honked along behind her, trying to call her back to get in a few more licks.

Cracked Out On Eggs

About a week ago, as I fought to emerge from a Mini Egg stupor, I twittered: “MiniEggs are going to be the death of me. And WHY do they now show up in stores in February? The season of my addiction has become too long.”  The responses proved I am far from alone in this affliction, and included this video:

link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8LNPXtwXxU

Mike, however, clearly does not have the mind of an addict. He hid a bag of Mini Eggs from me (upon my plea) but a few days later I needed a fix and went up to his house while he was at work.  I looked everywhere for the Mini Eggs, including in the pockets of rarely-worn jackets hanging in the guest bedroom closet.

I couldn’t find them anywhere.  Finally I said eff it and opened his pantry to see
if he had any decent food.  AND THERE WERE THE MINI EGGS.  Who hides food in the pantry???  It almost worked, because in my demented brain that’s the last place I thought they’d be.

NICU, Part II

A shower. A mug of strong tea.  I could have spent twenty minutes in the shower but a problem with my water heater means I only have enough hot water for the basics.  Long enough for the acute stress of the day to wash away with the sticky calf shit and milk slobber.

On Tuesday afternoon, a darling calf was born.  The mother was attentive, the calf was up and nursing, all seemed as fine as could be.  The weather has been amazing and all the snow had melted, nights have been mild, conditions were good for new babies.  But late that night, a freakish blizzard blew in ~ when I woke the next morning and could hardly open my door against the drifts, my first thought was for this calf, as the snow was piled taller than a calf in repose.

Mike and I were in the pasture before fully waking up and found the newborn calf buried in a snowdrift, only it’s head poking out.  Snow doesn’t bother a healthy cow or even a week-old calf ~ they have enough hair and fat to insulate and actually keep the snow from melting, but a calf just hours old is not hardy enough and the snow had soaked this calf and chilled her to the core.  Her hooves were like ice, the temperature inside her mouth was so cold.  Mike carried her to my house before dashing off to work.

Every year, I have at least one calf in my house for a spell.  Though the circumstances are always born of stress, it’s one of my favorite parts of calving.  With the calf placed directly in front of my woodstove, I set to work drying it off and then wrap it in flannel shirts and sweaters and tuck the hooves, wrapped in a towel, under the woodstove to warm ~ the cats love to lounge under there so I know it doesn’t get too hot.  Then it’s just a matter of waiting while the calf warms all the way through, flipping it over so the other side is exposed to the heat, and offering small amounts of Daisy’s warm milk in a bottle.

All the other calves I’ve tended in this manner have been preemptive saves ~ calves that are born too close to dusk in terrible weather who would surely freeze to death overnight, or a twin the mother rejects who would surely die of starvation and neglect.  This was the first calf that had been truly compromised before arriving in my house.

Though she warmed up ~ her belly was warm, her hooves were warm, the inside of her mouth was warm ~ and she drank a bit of milk, by noon she had not improved.  She remained still and unmoving; she didn’t even hold her head up, one of the most natural acts for a healthy calf.  When I lifted her long little body, she couldn’t stand, her legs were like noodles and just crumpled beneath her as I gently lowered her.  Her breathing was rapid and shallow.  Too rapid.  I saw the very real possibility that she would expire before she was able to replenish herself.  That the very act of trying to survive was depleting what energy she had.  She needed oxygen.

I sat back and thought.  Do I make a phone call and ask to borrow oxygen?  The man I would call would think I was absolutely insane.  But he already thinks that, so, nothing lost, everything to gain.  I made the call and procured portable O2.

Mike drove up just as I was walking to my truck so he rode with me to pick up the oxygen and sat with the calf as I set up the regulator and connected a mask.  He saw the dire state she was in and then we both watched, transfixed, as the calf started coming to life before our very eyes.  I held the non-rebreather mask over her little nose and she seemed to drink in the oxygen ~ her eyes opened and stayed open and her breathing began to slow and deepen until it was just half the rate it had been (and the rate it should be).  She started moving her legs.  If I pulled the mask away she would lift her head to follow it.  Amazing!

After fifteen minutes, she was trying to stand up on her own.  The oxygen had done good work.  We lifted her to her feet and she stood, wobbly but strong, and took a few steps.  It was time to take her to her mother for another boost of life force ~ mother’s milk.

Earlier, Mike had separated this calf’s mother from the main herd and put her in Daisy’s milking barn, a small, secluded space, dry and protected from the elements.  We brought the calf in to her and she immediately went to her calf and the calf immediately latched onto a teat, clumsily drinking as the mother stood still and patient.  When the udder was empty, the calf curled up in the straw we had spread out and, when I peeked in on them an hour later, mama was laying beside her calf.

We left them in Daisy’s milking barn for the night ~ it was better for them both to be together, rather than having the calf spend the night in my house, but I ran down to check on the calf every three hours through the night to make sure she was still warm and well and would have brought her home with me at the first sign of chill.  When I popped my head around the corner of the barn at 6am, the calf was standing and nursing, which is about the most perfect sign of recovery one can have.