Saving Clampett

Lots of times, a hard winter can mean more calving difficulty come spring. This year is no exception.

The twin to this calf was born deformed and dead. This sister was small, weak, and unable to pick herself up out of her cold birthday mud. By the time we found her at six in the morning, she was listless and barely able to move. Her temperature, normally 101 F for a calf, had dropped to 95 degrees. She was headed for dead.

We rushed her to the hospital on the back of a four wheeler. The hospital in this case is our lunchroom, where John held her icicle legs and gave her an invigorating rubdown, drying her off and encouraging her heart to pump. A normal calf, even a newborn, would be vigorously trying to kick him away, but this little gal was too cold to care.

The dog bed turned into a calf bed, and we piled on the heat: hot water bottles, blankets, radiators, and a heating pad under the rugs, all ministering warmth and life while we prayed and waited.

Since the calf couldn't stand, we knew she hadn't had a first meal. Audrey is offering her some electrolytes and colostrum, but the calf is too far gone to suck from the bottle. Not too far gone, however, to clamp her little calf teeth shut. Hence her nickname: Clampett.

If you can't suck from a bottle, you get the tube. Audrey has slid the long rubber piping down the calf's esophagus, and is squeezing warm, nutritious liquids into Clampett's stomach.

I don't usually go for cattle in the house, but, in this case, it worked. After a few hours of being cocooned in the warmth, Clampett's temp is normal, her head up, and her eyes perky.

If she could stand up to nurse from her mother, she could leave off being a dog and return to the bovine world. But, like her deformed twin sister, her legs aren't quite right. She will need help getting her mama's milk---a story for another day.