Little Calf

I’ve just finished washing the calf bottles and tube feeding bag that fed Little Calf. She died yesterday at 7:00 am.  We didn’t think she would make it through the night, but were so hopeful that she would surprise us by standing in her stall, waiting for us in the morning.

Mr. H checked on her at 6:00 and by 7:00 when I went out to do chores, she had passed.

We had a veritable intensive care unit up and running in the barn stall that so recently housed the three barn kittens, who are now huge, healthy killing machines. A very different outcome for Little Calf. The llama loved peeking through the window into her stall to watch her; and, as I finished my chores tonight, he was still occasionally walking by to look in.

Short story long:

Little Calf was one week old when she came to live at the Black Squirrel Ranch. That was two Sundays ago. Farmer Ron had just gotten her weaned off of a bottle and on to a bucket. She still needed her head “dunked” a bit to remind her of where her milk was coming from.

During the first week with us she stopped being timid and started enjoying our company. Instead of chasing us to suck on our pant legs looking for food, she would stand near us and liked it when we stroked her neck. She didn’t mind when I messed up her dark, red, Jersey hair while rubbing her forehead.

One week ago Sunday we wanted to get Little Calf out of the stall and into the sunshine. The weather was beautiful so we turned her and Buck loose in the backyard. Neither one of them moved far or fast. Buck stayed by Mr. H, who was building another feeder and Little Calf stayed just beyond him on the edge of the woods, nosing on the ground.

We put her back in the barn one hour later and she was never the same. Little Calf seemed very weak, but we just thought it was from her “big” outing. Monday morning she didn’t eat as fast, or clean her bucket, like usual. By Tuesday morning we were having my dad come over once a day to tube feed her, alternating electrolytes and goat milk. I was giving antibiotic pills with an oral pill feeder, which started Monday. Farmer Ron said it was to stave off any respiratory illness—just in case. It turns out, we think that’s what caused her grim outcome.

We got desperate Thursday morning and went back to a calf bottle to entice the little girl to drink. She took to it once and never again.  By Friday I had been taught to tube feed Little Calf myself, so with Mr. H holding the bag high enough for the gritty fluid (electrolyte) to go through, we were tube feeding once or twice a day.

Friday evening we got nervous and wondered what we would find the next day…Keep in mind that we have been bugging Farmer Ron (poor guy) frequently this past week, asking questions, asking him to take a look at her, anything, because we are used to goats and the gang—but not cows! Farmer Ron said calves were easy: and they are, but some of them contract this nasty respiratory bug and it gets them almost every time…

That’s what our veterinarian told me as well, Saturday morning. Little Calf was alive, but still wouldn’t eat. Before I tube fed her, I called the vet and described the situation. Farmer Ron (rightful owner of the calf) was at work and I just needed to ask more questions. Our vet said the antibiotic (Penicillin) we were giving doesn’t work against the type of respiratory bug he suspected and that she could also do for some antihistamine to help her breathing.

Making record time getting to the vet’s office eight miles away, I walked in and waited my turn. He wanted to draw up one dose of a very heavy-hitting antibiotic—as strong as they make it—and three doses of antihistamine, all to be given that day…that was 48 hours ago.

As the vet drew up the antibiotic, he asked me to look at the box the bottle came out of. He said, “Okay, now—“(sidebar: that’s how most sentences start out in Wisconsin), “you must be very careful not to poke yourself trying to give this injection. It’s toxic and would most likely kill you.”

Say what? Is he being seriously?!

I read the box again—just because. Ah, calcium channel blocker, and a whole bunch of other scary words I remember from my previous life as an ER maven. Roger that: don’t accidentally stick yourself.

When I got home, Mr. H met me in the barn and I gave Little Calf the antihistamine first. (Remember the long list of directions I had to memorize in order to give Buck his Penicillin, post castration?) I gave the antihistamine first so that I could see how she’d react (we don’t want jumpers when giving the other drug). Little Calf stayed very still, lying on the ground. 

I then thought it appropriate to look up and inform Mr. H of the importance of holding still for the next shot:

“So, hold her head that way and don’t move your hands any closer to me…the vet told me that if we get this somehow into ourselves, we will probably die, ok?”

It wasn’t an elegant description but nothing else was necessary.  He held Little Calf still and probably held his breath: that’s exactly what I did while I was giving this shot!

The injections we gave should have been given Tuesday instead of Saturday, but there was no way to know how bad she was or even what she might have had.

Thinking back on the amount of effort we put into this poor little girl is sort of astounding, really. I am in awe of the farmers that do this stuff on a routine basis on their own herd and not even think about it. As a trained respiratory therapist I spent 15 years putting tubes in airways, not stomachs. That was a weird concept which caused a good deal of panic every time I had to feed the little calf. Then, the whole injection thing again: it was hard enough on Buck, a moving target, but now we have a drug that could kill me if the animal jumps and I stick myself. This is one dangerous hobby!

It’s all part of being a “farmer” (a wanna-be farmer) and we will eventually toughen up…I hope! But after many years of processing equipment after humans no longer needed it, it wasn’t the same as when I was washing those dirty calf bottles this evening.  It happens, it will probably happen again, but Mr. H and I are both glad we got to meet Little Calf and you know she only got VIP (Very Important Petting Zoo) treatment during the short time that she was here.