Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [30]
“Are these the last two in labor?”
“For now. I don’t have a good feelin’ about either of ’em. This one keeps wantin’ to stand up. This one is flopped down like she’s already given up on the birth. If I try to get ’em to move, they go into further distress. Ain’t neither one of ’em particularly docile. If I leave ’em unattended, I’d likely lose two cow/calf pairs, rather than just two calves.”
“How long you planning to stay out here?”
“Long as it takes. Got the calf puller ready to go for that one.” He pointed to the heifer lying down, breathing hard. “I was jus’ takin’ a break.”
God. I hated to help pull a calf. It was a last resort, hence the use of extraction tools, and potentially dangerous to the calf. Plus, it was just a gross, nasty process.
101
Even though we were somewhat sheltered, we were still outside and it was still damn cold. I stamped my feet and leaned inside the stall. “Wish I woulda thought to bring coffee.”
He grunted and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. I had nothing better to do so I studied him. I don’t know what I expected to find. More gray hair threaded within the black strands? Deeper wrinkles by his disapproving eyes and frowning mouth? Or a softness in his sleeping hours, which was absent when he was awake?
There wasn’t a soft thing about him.
I should leave while I still could.
“It ain’t polite to stare. And I know for a fact your mama taught you better than that, girlie.”
Before I could snap off a response, the heifer shifted and tried to stand.
“Whoa, whoa there, little gal,” he said, shifting to his knees. “Let’s take it slow.”
The heifer began to thrash and make horrid noises.
“What the hell is wrong with her?”
“Her water bag broke more’n hour ago. She’s panicked and in pain ’cause that calf ain’t moved. Might be hung up on the pelvis. What do you recall about pullin’ a calf?”
“Besides all the liquidy shit?”
“Guess you remember enough.” He pointed to the bag in the corner. “Toss it over.”
I dragged the big canvas bag behind him.
102
Dad ripped off his right leather work glove and ran his bare hand down the heifer’s heaving side. Then he squirted antibacterial gel on his arm from his hand past his elbow. At least I wouldn’t be sticking my hand up where no one’s hand belonged.
I noticed he’d already attached the breech spanner of the calf puller below the heifer’s puffed-out vulva, and secured it around the backbone to keep the tail in place. He slid his hand inside the birth canal. Made a squishy sound as he gently moved it around. “Front hooves are pointin’ the right way, but I can feel the calf ’s nose and the tongue started to swell.”
I knelt along the cow’s spine. She was too focused on expelling the calf to be skittish at my strange and tentative touch. Dad’s and my hands were a foot apart on her belly and I could feel the hard clench of the external muscles as the internal muscles worked hard to disgorge the calf.
He and the cow both grunted as he rooted around, attaching the chain ends to the calf ’s legs. “Let’s work the SOB out a little at time, alternating pullin’ on these blasted chains.”
“Do you need me down there to pull one while you pull the other?”
“No. Too risky, ’specially since you ain’t done this for a while. Need you to open her up.”
Eww. I didn’t argue; I didn’t ask questions. There were a million places I’d rather be than in the middle of a blizzard, in zero degree cold, with my father, 103
covered in cow shit, with my hand spreading open a cow’s birth canal. I lifted the flaps of skin, pretending it was nothing more than her gums. “What now?”
He said, “Hold tight. Rest when she rests. Pull up when she strains. Here we go.” His arm slipped out. Dad muttered under his breath. Once his hands were out of the warm, wet birth canal, and he touched the icy cold chain on the ground to start pulling, his hands