Orphan Calves

While attending cattle auctions at the sale barn, I observed a group of women who always sat in the front rows and bought the orphan calves.

“I could do that,” I told my husband. “I like taking care of animals and I could get spending money that way.”

Always realistic, he dissuaded me.

 

“You’ve got to figure out how much it would cost to raise it, then you’d have to figure out a place to keep it, and there’s the chance that it might develop scours or coccidiosis and die. I don’t want to haul the trailer just to load one calf. I can’t put it in with the bigger steers, it would get trampled. Those are farm women and they know what they’re doing. Besides, you know how attached you get to animals. What happens when it’s time to sell them?”

I weighed these considerations:

 

A) I didn’t know the costs so how could I calculate them?

B) I could commandeer a stall in the barn and rig an outside pen.

C) I’m sure I could choose a healthy calf that couldn’t possibly get sick with all the TLC I’d lavish.

D) Why couldn’t we load it in the pickup if I rode in back and held it.

E) Those women had to start sometime, too, and I bet they’d be glad to advise me.

F) As for selling it, that was a long way down the road.

 

 

But now was not the time to convince Tom. His attention was fixed on the bidding. I’d have to wait for a more opportune moment. That moment didn’t come and eventually I accepted a full-time job, putting an end to all notions of a calf-raising project. Or, so I thought. Tom’s memory, however, never takes a holiday.

 

 

Last Friday arriving home from work, I was already looked forward to sleeping late for two mornings.

 

“Did you see what’s in the backyard?” asked my mother-in-law.

 

“No, what’s out there?” I asked.

 

Mysteriously she answered, “There’s a surprise out there.”

Curious, I went back outside. Rounding the corner of the house, I stopped in stunned disbelief. Not one, but two, tiny black and white calves were tied to the fence. Tom knelt on the roof, tacking up shingles.

“What are those doing here?” I yelled.

 

“They’re yours,” came the cryptic reply.

I bit my tongue thinking, I don’t want them now. I wanted them two years ago. When do I have time for them now that I have a job? I peeked at Tom from the corner of my eye. He was peeking at me from the corner of his eye, waiting for my reaction. If I showed my distress, this man would never give me another gift for the rest of my life.

 

So, I pasted on a grin and approached the calves. I reached out to pet the smaller one’s soft, wavy coat. It’s bright clean face surpassed my whitest laundry. The bigger calf stretched out its bubblegum-pink nose. When I offered my other hand, he began sucking my fingers.

 

The poor little creatures were starving. I’d better change my clothes and figure out what to do. At that instant, I realized I’d put my brand of motherhood on them. So much for sleeping late on weekends!