A NEW Meaning for "Labor" Day

How is it the old Cat Stevens song goes?

Morning has broken, like the first....newborn-calf-in-the-field...

Well, not exactly. But our morning started out with a bang. Or, rather, a bellow...a continuous strain of bellows, to be exact. Buster Brown, our three-year old son of Buster the Lowline Angus bull, broke the cool of the morning with a continuous string of bellows that would ice over any activity with a thick coating of fear. These bellows were L-O-U-D. And, while we couldn't see him, we KNEW something was wrong.

I sprang into action, throwing down the scoops in the middle of the morning feed and hopping on the golf cart, intent on finding out what was causing such a commotion. As I flew over the wet ground, the bellows got louder and louder, until I could see this hefty boy bouncing on all fours "pogo stick" style, flinging his head and strings of bull slime with it. He whirled and twirled--bellowing all the while. I didn't see anything amiss except for a few flies buzzing him, so I figured he'd happened upon a wasp's nest and got the worse end of it. He calmed a little, so I went back to finish breakfast in the nursery.

The peace didn't last long.

The bellows rose again, louder than before. So, hoping there wasn't a snake chasing him or that some other awful fate hadn't befallen him, I mounted the golf cart and back I went. This time, I saw Scarlett, our Scottish Highland cow. Her udders were filled beyond all capacity, and she was showing obvious signs of labor. So, I looked a little closer.

There, in the taller grass between where Buster Brown was acting up and the perimeter fence, I saw it...a hairy log. Well, not REALLY a hairy log. It was a newborn calf lying motionless in the shadows. My heart sank. NOT AGAIN! Last year, Scarlett's first calf, Rusty, died in my arms. I couldn't bear the thought of that happening again. With the goft cart between me and the unusually upset bull, I peered closer and noticed a breath. Then, another one. And, another. This one was still alive and kickin', and I knew if I didn't get it out of there quickly, Buster Brown was intent on making it a doormat. Obviously, by the smell, he could tell it was his daddy's calf and not his. In his mind, this would not do, and he was doing all he could to keep Scarlett away from the newborn. Buster was actively posting himself between his son and his love--keeping her safe and sound.

Seeing my opportunity and before Buster Brown had time to react, I jumped off the cart, grabbed the baby, and sped away to the gate and the safety of the yard. As I approached, my husband opened the gate and joined me in assessing the little rescuee. SHE was beautiful. The color of chocolate milk and perfect in every way. About 25 pounds and still very weak, she appeared to be unharmed by the fracas going on around her. In the span of about five minutes, I mixed up the only bag of colostrum we had and got two pints down her. Then, she nodded off to sleep as I toweled her off completely.

As the day has progressed, this yet-to-be-named little heifer has napped several times, gained the use of her still-wobbly legs, and mastered the art of the "moo". Her systems seem to be functioning normally, so we're hopeful that she'll be welcomed by mom again this evening when we will attempt to get her into one of our birthing stalls. That remains to be seen. If so, then we'll consider this day a success. If not, well, then we have yet another bottle baby to contend with. After all, three months isn't such a long time, is it?