How I saved the day, and lost it, at the same time
September 2nd, 2010We saved her. Holly the Holstein—it was #2 kid’s turn to name a pet—is alive for now. I’m happy to report that the mostly-dead calf is on pasture. This is good and not the same thing as being put out to pasture. But to fully appreciate this momentous occasion, I have to back up a little bit.
Things often die, break, burst, and explode when Greg is out of town, so I should’ve saw this coming. I spent several days drenching the calf—the tricky process of putting a tube down an animal’s throat and into her stomach and trying not to remember that the vet just aspirated a calf last week and that they pretty much just fall over dead on top of you if you do it wrong. By mid week, the electrolytes weren’t working and the calf was lying on her side, unable to get up.
The decision to pay for an IV (I can’t do everything) was balanced with my ick for dead things. Simply, I didn’t want to drag her out of the barn and bury her, because then I’d have to touch her. When I was a kid with a fish tank of guppies, I had to close my eyes when I flushed a dead fish. I don’t do dead things.
McGregor and I loaded the mostly-dead calf into the van, the van without seats that fold down, because of course, Greg dropped the truck at the airport parking lot. McGregor is not too bright at every occasion, but hear hear, he volunteered to carry the head, so that left me with the other end, the end with diahrrea.
A little arranging of someone’s old socks, a Dora potty book, and a Tupperware of old grapes, and we were able to scrunch her limbs into the van. Squirrrt. Oh yes, I love my life!
On the way to The Cow Hospital, I thought she’d died on me, oh great, but McGregor noted a slight rise in her body cavity. We got there, but the doctor was gone, so we unloaded the 100+ pound-mostly dead cow ourselves. Once again, McGregor lept to the front of the cow, and I got the back end, so I made a mental note about a study on chivalry after algebra this week. It was not the most graceful unloading of a sick patient; she basically just collapsed in a bag of bones on the ground.
Once I dragged her into the barn, I heard a sniffle from my partner-in-crime and firstborn son. Then more sniffles. I reached out, put my arms around him, and held him for a long time, peeking over my shoulder periodically to grimace at the unmoving calf. After some time had passed, I explained that death was just part of farm life.
“Um. I just got hay up my nose when she plopped on the ground.”
Oh.
When Greg returned from his trip, the vet called to let me know that I could pick up the calf. You mean, alive?! So, I sent Greg since I’d done enough, eh? He drove up and a stable boy provided full-service loading of a non-squirting calf for him. He just sat in his vehicle. I must not be living right.
According to the kids, I was quite the hero for saving the calf. That is, until later that day I backed up over their favorite kitten. It wasn’t The Mean Cat, The Scared Cat, or The Cat that Only Shows Up for Food, but rather, The Favorite Kitten who slept in the girls’ room until she got a little stronger and wore dress up clothes.
To say that I made soup out of her would be underplaying it. McGregor sat up and groaned, “Oh noooo! Oh, oh, oh…..,” because of the way she died. I will save that part in the comment section of this post because it’s bad, real bad.
It’s true that I struggle with pride sometimes on a job well done, but it never seems to last very long at all.



























