A Calf and Bull Story

Today we visited “Coast Papamoa”. Having driven past kilometres of “tuscan villas”, we were expecting the worst, but found plantings already in the ground, a local boy made good “putting something back into the community,” and BULL ALLEN to show us around the model homes.

CEP was particularly excited – Bull Allen was a teenage hero of hers, as a vegetarian sportsperson. “Yes,” he said, “not 100% vegetarian, but given the choice between meat and something else, I'd take the something else”.

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Arriving back at the farm about 5ish, we decided to accompany Karl and Alfa (the dog) on a walk around the stock. It's calving time – a busy time for Karl, as he works part time as a vet as well as keeping an eye on the farm. The night we arrived he'd been out on several calls, extracting twins and chopping the head off a dead calf to haul him out of a heifer.*

The sun was just lowering as we set out, the sky starting to colour up. Down in the calving paddock, Karl pointed out a heifer just in the process of dropping – one thin knobbly calf leg sticking out of her vagina. He started to look at bit concerned - hmm, just one leg, that's not so good.

After a closer look he decided she needed some assistance. CEP and I drafted her out and herded her up the track to a race**. He rolled his sleeves up and plunged his arm in to have a good feel around. CEP and I both stood and watched, our childhood reading of James Herriot floating around in our heads. The calf was a backwards presentation. Karl disappeared up the road for his truck, and came back with a large metal traction frame, that sat on the cow's back and attached to the calf's hooves; and a big pump bottle of vicious pink fluid, which CEP pumped into the cow to give a bit more moisture in the uterus.***

Eventually the calf came slithering out - “probably dead”, said Karl – but he wasn't – the tail flickered a little, Karl thumped the wee body, then, seeing he wasn't breathing properly, flung him out of the narrow race and into the paddock. In a running blur Karl vaulted the fence after him, grabbed his back hooves and, spinning, swung the small slimy body round his head (think Valerie Vili winding up for a world-beating throw).

After a few seconds he put the calf down, checked its mouth with his fingers, gave him a consolatory pat, then slung him back over the fence to his mother.

CEP and I stood, silent with admiration. The mother cow ambled over and started to lick the calf. Karl gave her an injection to get the membranes and placenta moving. Alfa rubbed up against my leg. The sun had disappeared entirely, and a thin orange moon hung over the black hills.

* Last night CEP was talking about our brother, saying she thinks he's sometimes less than totally thrilled by his day job. “Oh yes,” said Karl (we were eating dinner), “it's like that for everyone. When there's a cow with a dead calf, and you've got your arm up her, and its all gaseous, that's not so great.”

** A fenced area too narrow for a cow to turn in easily, designed to contain an animal on just such occasions as this.

***In the middle of this my work phone went – “can't talk now” I said, “I'm assisting at a calving”. “What?” said the voice at the other end. “A calving,” I said. “A what?” said the voice. “A COW IS GIVING BIRTH AND I AM HELPING,” I shouted, and hung up.