The Calf Saver

The Calf Saver

Lg (Chip) McGregor

I met Liz through my Mother. They had a mutual friend who owned a backcountry guide service in Colorado. They both happened to be visiting and working for that friend simultaneously. It was a rare instance where two real cowgirls would have the chance to meet. Mom introduced us, and I began visiting Liz’s Indiana ranch as part of a long-distance relationship. I would visit, Liz would have a chore or task that she needed help with, and I would pitch in. My enthusiasm improved by Liz’s good looks. I happened to be visiting one April when Liz began calving season. It was apparent that I had more experience saving sick calves than Liz. Liz came to rely on my ability to save calves.

I went back to the upper Midwest after a few weeks. Liz continued to deliver the rest of the Calf crop as I returned to the upper Midwest. She was alone for the middle of the night herd checks and the muddy wrestling matches that began as attempts to get a calf shelter. Calving season progressed along with few emergencies or significant problems. When Liz would call me, she would be tired and dirty, but not exhausted and falling apart. Liz isn’t one to fall apart easily, but she cares deeply for her cowherd and is prone to thinking that she can control the world around her through hard work. So, when she called me one afternoon and told me that she had a calf that wasn’t doing well, I gave the problem my full attention. I even took notes when I wasn’t on the phone to better order the advice on the next phone call. Liz treated the calf’s stomach, addressed his hydration, and made his environment more comfortable. His Mother was tied up so he could attempt to drink. Liz did everything that I suggested and more. But unfortunately, the calf didn’t improve.

After two days of this, Liz called. “The calf seems to be doing much worse,” Her voice had a ragged edge of exhaustion creeping in. After asking a couple of questions, I suggested she “tube” the calf, which means passing a tube into the calf’s stomach past the esophagus to pour liquids down. Liz had seen me do it and was rightfully scared to undertake the procedure. Tubing a calf is not for the faint-hearted or anyone with a weak stomach. Tubing involves wrestling the calf’s nose into the air.

Then very gingerly pushing the tube. If you push too hard or your timing is off, you can insert the tube into the calf’s lungs and drown it.

At this point, Liz’s parents were at the calving barn attempting to be of some help but had become an audience to what might be a grisly scene. This added to the level of difficulty when trying to explain the procedure to Liz. I tend to use foul language when things get stressful. Liz does too. When she had the tube end at the esophagus, she asked how hard she should push. I stammered, looking for the words. “Just grip the tube like a joint. Then you can push as hard as your two fingers will let you”. I imagined her parents cataloging my knowledge of drugs in the back of their minds. She finally got the tube in the calf and started passing electrolytes. I could hear the calf bellow in distress. It was a good sign that the tube wasn’t in a lung. The problem was that the calf was dying. The bellow was not robust. It sounded like it came from a toy calf whose batteries were running out. We might have waited too long to tube the calf.

“It just fell over. I can’t lift him back up”. The exhaustion at the edge of Liz’s voice had permeated deep into her throat.

“Just pull the tube out and send me a picture, please,” I half told, half asked. When the picture came through, the calf had sunken eyes and was laid on its side unnaturally. I called Liz to give her some bad news. She didn’t answer.

About fifteen minutes later, Liz called me back. She was short of breath from attempting not to cry. I asked if everything was ok. She said, “hold on until I can get by myself.” I heard the pickup door shut on the other end of the line. “I think I killed that calf. I tried to put the tube back in, and I’m sure I drowned him”. She broke down. Her sobs come deep and frenzied. She was exhausted, frustrated, and almost defeated. I let her cry. After a couple of minutes, she asked, “did I drown that calf?” Animal husbandry isn’t science or art but simply a matter of fortune. Did the calf die from the tube in its lungs? Who knows? When a calf’s eyes look like they did in the picture, there is no chance of saving them.

Some things come into this world more fragile than others. Owning livestock is a front-row seat to the cycle of life playing out daily. Some days are green fields and babies at play. Others are dark with hands cold with wet from trying to save a calf. Life and death live side by side. No amount of work, talent, or good fortune will separate the two completely.

“That calf wasn’t able to be saved, Liz,” I said with complete certainty.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Absolutely, when they get hollow eyes, they are as good as gone.”

Liz sniffed her runny nose a couple of times. This served to mark the call as silence and not a dropped connection.

“Well, I had better go and check the heifers. One of them is due any time”. So, we said goodbye and hung up the phone.

We come into this world fragile. It seems as if chance determines if we survive that initial fragility. Then we become a different kind of fragile. Then another kind and another kind.

Let us just hope that we all have someone like Liz looking over us.