When I was married, I returned to the ranch to work for my father. Grandpa Earl had gone on to be with the Ghost Riders in the Sky. He left the ranch to his sons--my dad and his brother, Warren. Warren lived in Scottsdale and worked in a large law firm. Dad lived in St. Johns and also owned a law firm, but did as Earl did earlier in life and ran both businesses. I was in a county clerk job and jumped at the chance to return to the ranch. There was only one stipulation: I would not ride a horse. I had a tendency to fall off the darned things and didn’t like them too much. For the most part, I was able to avoid the species. I became the well-man. I made sure the cattle had water, I fixed fences and corrals, and I drove the bobtail cattle-hauler truck. The cowboys rode the range, roped cattle, and well, acted like cowboys.
I always respected these guys, especially their ability to remain in the saddle for long periods of time. I always ended up on the ground for one reason or another; the horse usually looking at me as if to say, “What in the heck is wrong with this kid?” The cowboys could do some amazing things besides riding. They could rope, something I never could figure out. They could control cattle in and out of the corral like an ancient Jedi master. But one thing I could never figure out was their aversion to getting too dirty. Mud, dirt, cow crap, and slime were all okay, but when it came to amniotic fluid and after-birth, they shunned it like I shunned houses.
One morning, we were working at the Sherwood corrals just outside of town. There was a pregnant cow that we were watching closely. She was very young and not doing too well. She was in labor for a long time, but could not get the calf out. Sometimes a cow will strain so hard that she will damage her sciatic nerve and then never get up again. It is sad but often unavoidable.
This cow did just that. As we were moving her, she gave a hearty strain and dropped like a rock. The other cowboys gave up on her and figured she was a goner. Always a lover of the veterinary sciences, I jumped over the fence, stripped off my shirt and knelt behind the small cow. Slightly protruding from her birth canal was a little black hoof.
“The calf is right here!” I yelled to the cowboys loafing on the other side of the fence. “Come help me pull it out!”
“Why?” came the reply. “It’s probably dead anyway!” Once a cowboy makes up his mind it is tough to change it, unless it is a challenge.
“If it is dead, I’ll buy breakfast!” I figured their bellies were the best avenue to extend my challenge.
“Okay, as long as we don’t get dirty!”
You would think I had a group of girls on a field trip, but at least they were willing to help. One of them got a piece of nylon rope to loop over the calf’s feet. To the horror of my rough-edged companions, I plunged my arm deep inside the young cow to feel out the predicament. The calf had one leg down the birth canal and one folded up underneath him. I had to push his big head back into his mama to get at that leg. Every two of three minutes, the cow would strain and muscles would grip and nearly break my arm. I looped the rope around the errant hoof and pulled it into place. I looped the other end of the rope around the hoof and pulled the rest of the rope, the middle half, out of the birth canal. My arm was a slimy mess. I swear one of the cowboys turned green. They all donned gloves so they wouldn’t have to touch the “yucky” stuff, and all four of us pulled that calf to freedom. It took a lot of pulling before that calf got his big head out. The rest of him popped out like a champagne cork. I cleaned his nose and mouth with my shirt and rubbed him down with some loose hay. The miracle of life had begun its circle once again.
In only a few minutes the little bull calf was teetering around trying to find its mama. Unfortunately, she had died during the ordeal. I sent one of the cowboys off to the feed store for milk replacer and a bottle. The other cowboys just stared as I washed up out of the half-frozen drinker.
That’s pretty amazing,” one cowboy said, “I would never have done that.”
I guess there were some limits to manliness in their book, but I just cared about that little life not being given a chance because its mama was not able to live.
I ended up with a free breakfast that morning, and my father-in-law ended up with a fine little bull that he raised to breed his own small herd of dairy cows. Best of all, a group of cowboys and I got to see one of the greatest miracles God gave us on this earth—a miracle that happens every day—the miracle of life.
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