Death is a part of life; this is something we all know, yet we never fully learn how to accept it.

It comes in many forms and at times when we don’t expect it. Death plays no favorites. It takes parents, friends, relatives, neighbors, a partner, and children. Sometimes it quietly enters our home and takes a beloved pet who shared our days in a way no one else could. Sometimes, we humans have to remind ourselves to keep that line VISIBLE a human loss and the loss of a pet. The heart cannot always recognize the distinction, but we must try to remember the difference ourselves.

All that being said, on Easter Sunday, we shared a lovely dinner with our children and grandchildren, and shortly after they went home, I noticed that one of the Hereford cattle in the pen seemed to be in labor, pushing pretty hard. I checked her and decided that with a water bag hanging, I could afford to give her 60 to 90 minutes before I would need to intervene.

Almost 2 hours and nothing. So now, I grabbed a baseball bat in each hand, walked out to feed the herd, and began separating the labored-down cow from the feeder. The bats are EXTENSIONS to my arms, not for hitting. I called Granddaughter Alaina and asked if she wanted to be a part of pulling a cow, and she was game.

We got the heifer (first-time mom) rounded up in the loading chute area, and I did a quick exam.  My heart dropped as my worst fear hit me instantly. The calf was not only breech, but its legs were tucked so tightly beneath it that I couldn’t feel the hocks. (the hooves).

I have pulled plenty of calves in my 34 years on this farm, and it’s no picnic no matter the issue is.  For three hours, I had my right arm up to my armpit, trying to push the calf forward enough to grab at least one of the legs. To no avail. I had Alaina trying to do the same. A few times, I would have her use her arm and slide down my arm and see if the two of us could pull the hock up enough to see it, and at least get one out.  Each time the cow contracts, it crushes your whole arm; your hands are constantly riding against pelvic bones, hip bones.  Several times out of exhaustion, we would stop. 

The grim reality has set in, and I was fairly certain the calf was gone, but still needed to be delivered. I took a break for one moment and said, “Alaina, you and I are about to pull a ‘Jim Haas’.  Growing up on the homeplace, my dad was like McGyver, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix, repair, or fabricate. At least this daughter thought so.

Now we cut off a one-inch ratchet strap and back in we go, trying to at least get a strap around the left leg and try to pull it up and out while I am pushing on the calf’s whole hind end, trying to push it far enough ahead inside the mom that I can gain leverage on the leg. Still no progress.

We tried everything I could think of.  After three hours, our daughter, Tonya, called Dr. Fedore, and at 8 p.m., he joined the party.

Within moments, he concurred exactly what I had told him.   He worked a few minutes and was able to pull the left foot out, and said it was probably because we had been working on it so long.

He and I then worked shoulder to shoulder for almost an hour, taking turns trying to retrieve the right hoof. We were wearing out, and there was no progress. He ran to his truck, got out a calf puller, a long, threaded 8-foot rod about 1 inch in diameter, resembling a Y. He placed the Y across the hind end of the cow, hooked a chain around the calf’s foot, attached three handles to the chain, and started ratcheting. The rod broke in half. Then we went to the barn and grabbed a common farm “Come-Along”, hooked it to the chain again with three handles, and began pulling.  I don’t know how the cow endures such brutal pulling and tugging, but she did.

At 9 p.m., the calf was finally delivered. It was a little girl, dark red with a white face and white socks, and gosh, it hurt this farmHER’s heart.

She was gone. That’s the part that stays with you. Perhaps it’s because I spent almost four hours running my hands up and down her hips and legs and hooves, feeling her tail trying to bring her into the world.

On a farm, there is no time to stand still in grief. We shift quickly to the next issue-the mother.  We treated her. Doc gave her three different shots for pain, antibiotics, and then I said a silent prayer that she would pull through. It wasn’t her fault. The baby was turned wrong, but she feels the loss too.

Dr. said as breach births go, this kind is the worst, and that we had done everything right, but sometimes “right” isn’t enough to change the ending.

I know it’s not human life we are talking about, I know that it’s not important in the general scheme of life’s ups and downs, and it wasn’t the cost of the animal or the vet bill that bothered me.  It was the beautiful, healthy, little calf, fully developed…her life gone before she could draw a single breath.

When the doc left, the calf taken care of, I went inside, tossed all my clothes in the garbage, and showered with soap and bleach.  I was worn out.

Yesterday, the doctor yelled at the cow at one point and said, “Hey, don’t break my arm!”      I asked, inches from his face, still shoulder to shoulder, “Can that really happen?”

His answer did NOT leave me feeling warm and fuzzy last night. This morning, my whole arm, wrist, and hand are severely swollen and barely move, – a quiet reminder of the fight to save a new life, and my human arm was being squeezed for hours yesterday between bones while the cow had contractions, and my arm was in places it wasn’t meant to be in. 

 Our big Hereford bull, who has been so quiet and docile for 2 years, screamed and moaned throughout the procedure. Never has he behaved that way. If I told him to quiet down, he would for a while. Bruno knew the cow was in distress, and the way he would smell the air and curl his lip, I knew from his reaction that the calf was gone.  Hours after I turned the cow back into the general population, my bull still moaned and cried.

Life on the farm is not for the faint of heart. Especially on a small farm, where every animal has a name, and they matter to you. However, as I have always tried to tell our three children and now our 12 grandchildren, farm life can show joy and loss in the very same moment. IT teaches you that love isn’t just in the “saving” … sometimes it’s in the trying with all you have, and still, at the close of the day, you question if you did all you could.

The outcome broke my heart, but I still continue forward because I love this part of farm living: I love the cows, the sheep, the chickens, the smell of dirt and diesel, the sound of dry corn being cracked into feed by a grinder. It’s who I am.

On this farm…. Love isn’t just something you feel; it’s something you do.