I have to say, there is one thing in particular about my job that I absolutely love.
I mention this because it is something that has come up quite a few times in the past couple weeks. Each time it does, I am reminded of what a joy it is to work with animals. I am reminded of why I chose dairy farming as a career, above all else.
Just today I helped deliver a newborn calf. Around midmorning, I noticed that one of my heifers was seeking solitude. She had moved away from the herd and found a comfortable spot in a corner to lie down. I checked on her periodically, knowing that it would not be long.
By midday the delivery had taken place. Cows are such quiet, docile creatures. Not a sound had been uttered during the trial, making it seem to be the most natural, unproblematic affair to be faced that day. I was a mere observer of the miracle; no assistance was required.
Instantly there were signs of newborn life, and of strength. I watched as the healthy baby calf opened its eyes and wretched its first breath of air. My contribution was limited to a mere clearing of the infant's mouth and nasal tract, to prevent any possible asphyxiation. Within seconds of being born, the baby was drawing breath in regular intervals and blinking as though she had merely woken from a slumber.
What has always amazed me is the incredible strength possessed by an infant calf. In this case, as with countless others, the baby convulsed to an upright sitting position and raised her head. She let out a loud snort and shook her head, her ears flopping noisily. For the moment my work was done. I retreated in order to give the new mother the space she deserved.
Having given birth to a 60-pound baby, the mother had lain dormant. Her body was relaxed into the typical birthing position of a cow: completely on her side, all four of her feet stretched horizontal. Her neck arched upward, her head aresting on the ground above her shoulders. Then, as the calf twitched and shook its head, the mother's eyes snapped open. She reared up her head and looked behind. Seeing the newborn calf, she sprung to life.
This was the part I always cherish - the dawning realization of the mother, of her baby. She propelled herself to her feet in one fluid movement. It is choreography that is impossible to comprehend to any soul who has not witnessed it firsthand. The best I can do is to beg you to imagine an animal that weighs more than a half-ton simply levitating to its feet. So graceful, so elegant does the new mother stand up and turn toward her calf that it hardly seems a plausible routine for a bovine to execute.
Equally endearing is what came next. The mother cleaned her calf using the only means at her disposal - her tongue. With near comical enthusiasm, the cow licked her calf clean. From my vantage point I could hear the rough, grindstone-like organ scraping and polishing the infant. While she did so, the mother uttered soft but deliberate bellows. If a cow could sing a lullaby, this is what it would sound like.
Naturally, the calf is inclined to stand. Or, at least try to. The initial attempts were disastrous as the long-legged, gangly little creature flopped and spilled over itself. Each movement from the calf brought an increasingly agitated response from the cow. She licked her progeny harder and faster, her soft moos sounding distressed. It is a scene I should never tire of witnessing.
The calf having been cleaned, it was time for it to be fed. It was absolutely essential for the new baby to have its first feeding, and for the health and safety of the calf, I could not allow it to nurse.
I sanctioned the cow and grabbed a milk machine. I could see she was nervous. As I approached I spoke softly, offering comfort. Her eyes were wide and she quivered slightly as she watched me. It is a perfectly natural reaction for a new cow to kick; I have actually witnessed a nursing calf get tossed like a rag doll, hence my desire to milk the cow myself.
Separating every stanchion is a dividing bar, made of 2-inch steel. I am always careful to keep this bar between the new cow, and myself. It has saved my kneecaps on many an occasion. Speaking softly, I massaged the cow's udder and hooked up the machine. After a moment or two, she let down her milk. As soon as she realizes what this is all for - relieving that immense pressure in her mammary - she relaxes. Visibly, she calms down.
By now the calf is standing on its own, albeit as wobbly as a fawn. Having bottled the warm frothy milk of its mother, I straddled the baby. I held its head, caressing the neck. Like mother, as soon as she realized what this is all for, she responds. There are few things more satisfying in my line of work than the privilege of being able to witness life anew.
I returned the mother to her calf. She busied herself with another lullaby and another set of licks. By now, other cows have formed an audience as curious onlookers. But aside from the caresses and murmurs of the mother, all is silent.
The scene is better observed in quiet reflection anyway.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I mention this because it is something that has come up quite a few times in the past couple weeks. Each time it does, I am reminded of what a joy it is to work with animals. I am reminded of why I chose dairy farming as a career, above all else.
Just today I helped deliver a newborn calf. Around midmorning, I noticed that one of my heifers was seeking solitude. She had moved away from the herd and found a comfortable spot in a corner to lie down. I checked on her periodically, knowing that it would not be long.
By midday the delivery had taken place. Cows are such quiet, docile creatures. Not a sound had been uttered during the trial, making it seem to be the most natural, unproblematic affair to be faced that day. I was a mere observer of the miracle; no assistance was required.
Instantly there were signs of newborn life, and of strength. I watched as the healthy baby calf opened its eyes and wretched its first breath of air. My contribution was limited to a mere clearing of the infant's mouth and nasal tract, to prevent any possible asphyxiation. Within seconds of being born, the baby was drawing breath in regular intervals and blinking as though she had merely woken from a slumber.
What has always amazed me is the incredible strength possessed by an infant calf. In this case, as with countless others, the baby convulsed to an upright sitting position and raised her head. She let out a loud snort and shook her head, her ears flopping noisily. For the moment my work was done. I retreated in order to give the new mother the space she deserved.
Having given birth to a 60-pound baby, the mother had lain dormant. Her body was relaxed into the typical birthing position of a cow: completely on her side, all four of her feet stretched horizontal. Her neck arched upward, her head aresting on the ground above her shoulders. Then, as the calf twitched and shook its head, the mother's eyes snapped open. She reared up her head and looked behind. Seeing the newborn calf, she sprung to life.
This was the part I always cherish - the dawning realization of the mother, of her baby. She propelled herself to her feet in one fluid movement. It is choreography that is impossible to comprehend to any soul who has not witnessed it firsthand. The best I can do is to beg you to imagine an animal that weighs more than a half-ton simply levitating to its feet. So graceful, so elegant does the new mother stand up and turn toward her calf that it hardly seems a plausible routine for a bovine to execute.
Equally endearing is what came next. The mother cleaned her calf using the only means at her disposal - her tongue. With near comical enthusiasm, the cow licked her calf clean. From my vantage point I could hear the rough, grindstone-like organ scraping and polishing the infant. While she did so, the mother uttered soft but deliberate bellows. If a cow could sing a lullaby, this is what it would sound like.
Naturally, the calf is inclined to stand. Or, at least try to. The initial attempts were disastrous as the long-legged, gangly little creature flopped and spilled over itself. Each movement from the calf brought an increasingly agitated response from the cow. She licked her progeny harder and faster, her soft moos sounding distressed. It is a scene I should never tire of witnessing.
The calf having been cleaned, it was time for it to be fed. It was absolutely essential for the new baby to have its first feeding, and for the health and safety of the calf, I could not allow it to nurse.
I sanctioned the cow and grabbed a milk machine. I could see she was nervous. As I approached I spoke softly, offering comfort. Her eyes were wide and she quivered slightly as she watched me. It is a perfectly natural reaction for a new cow to kick; I have actually witnessed a nursing calf get tossed like a rag doll, hence my desire to milk the cow myself.
Separating every stanchion is a dividing bar, made of 2-inch steel. I am always careful to keep this bar between the new cow, and myself. It has saved my kneecaps on many an occasion. Speaking softly, I massaged the cow's udder and hooked up the machine. After a moment or two, she let down her milk. As soon as she realizes what this is all for - relieving that immense pressure in her mammary - she relaxes. Visibly, she calms down.
By now the calf is standing on its own, albeit as wobbly as a fawn. Having bottled the warm frothy milk of its mother, I straddled the baby. I held its head, caressing the neck. Like mother, as soon as she realized what this is all for, she responds. There are few things more satisfying in my line of work than the privilege of being able to witness life anew.
I returned the mother to her calf. She busied herself with another lullaby and another set of licks. By now, other cows have formed an audience as curious onlookers. But aside from the caresses and murmurs of the mother, all is silent.
The scene is better observed in quiet reflection anyway.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
