A New Life

Every spring, the cows would start giving birth, or as we called it, calving. Most of the time it was no big deal. A cow would drop her calf, lick it clean, and before long that wobbly little thing would be standing and nursing. Ranch life at its simplest.

But sometimes, things didn’t go right. A first-time heifer might be too small, or the calf too big. Other times, the calf would come backwards, or with its head twisted around wrong. When that happened, it wasn’t just a matter of waiting — you had to step in, and sometimes the job meant saving the cow, the calf, or both.

That’s why a rancher makes the rounds every day, sometimes two or three times. You look for the cow that’s off by herself, straining or restless. If she was down and couldn’t get up, we worked with her right there in the pasture. Otherwise, we tried to ease her into the barn where we had better light and tools.

I still remember the first time I saw Dad pull a calf. I must’ve been four or five, small enough to barely see over the stall wall, but old enough to know something serious was happening. The cow groaned and shifted while Dad knelt behind her. He reached in, came back out with a single yellow, slimy hoof, and slipped a nylon strap around it. Then he set a steel jack against the cow’s backside and started ratcheting. Slowly, that hoof inched farther out.

Before long, another hoof appeared. Dad stopped, looped them both in, and leaned on the jack again. The cow rocked, moaned, and fought, but finally a little pink nose slid into the light. With one last heave, the calf came spilling out in a rush — limp, wet, and still.

I thought it was dead. My stomach sank.

Dad unhooked the straps and stepped back. The cow swung around, licking her calf furiously. Then, just like that, it shuddered, sucked in a ragged breath, and started shaking. Within minutes, it was on its feet, searching for milk.

The beginning of a new life on the ranch is something you never forget.