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Cold start to calving season

3 min read

How about this winter weather?

In case you are reading this via the Observer-Reporter’s online forum from some sunny, sandy, beachy destination, I feel obligated to inform you that it has been cold. Blisteringly, bone-chillingly, can’t-wear-enough-clothes-to-stay-warm cold.

Oh, and our cows are having babies.

Like many other farmers, we are on vigil for the babies because of the extreme cold. Those lambing and calving are aware newborn babies have a very small window in which to get dry and fed before the cold saps their strength and reduces their chances of survival.

The vigil began when the first calf was born and will end when the last one is. We go to the calf pen a minimum of every four hours. (All day and night long. It is like having a newborn child again. And I’ve done my share of that. I’m out.)

On Saturday, two babies were born. Both heifers, they were born about three hours apart. The second one decided to give us a little bit of trouble. At some point in the hour and a half between my husband witnessing her birth and me arriving home to look her over, she tumbled between the board fence enclosing her pen and rolled over the hill.

I found her curled up in a thicket of dead weeds about 30 feet below where she started. I crunched my way into her thicket and scooped her up. On the way up the hill, I fell, crunching my knee on rocks. Undeterred, I continued my way back to the pen and began rubbing her down with hay to both dry her and help circulate blood.

After a few minutes, we made a hay blanket over her and dumped a little grain on her back to encourage her mother to resume licking her. Then, we left them to each other for a while.

An hour later, we were back at the pen, concern for her well-being overriding the desire for nature to take its course. The heifer had not moved, and though the mother had her nearly dry, she had not yet stood to eat. She was beginning to stiffen from the cold. We decided to feed her.

A bottle of colostrum at the ready, I attempted to get her to nurse. She would chew and suck for only a second before her eyes would close in exhaustion. I knew letting her fall asleep would signal all but certain death.

We readied the tube feeder and steeled our nerves. No matter how many times I have done it (and it is not many), I don’t think I will ever quit holding my breath while inserting the tube into a calf’s throat. It is tricky business, but we were successful in our attempt. The quart and a half of warm milk slid through the tube and into the calf’s stomach.

We blanketed her in hay again and let her sleep. We revisited her later that afternoon and were happy to see her up and walking around. She looked rather spritely, if I do say so myself.

On Sunday morning, she was jumping, kicking her heels and had definitely eaten from her mother’s udder. We were fortunate she survived her ordeal and the cold.

Now, if only we can.

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.

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