The Lord of the Cows

The Springer

Reginald checked the springers before bed. A springer is a cow close to giving birth, named because her body begins to “spring up” with visible changes. Following his dad’s advice, Reginald looked for a swollen udder and relaxed pelvic ligaments. Instead, he found a situation so obvious even an amateur could have spotted it: a heifer already in labor, pushing with two calf feet sticking out.

“I need some help,” thought Reginald. He grabbed his headlamp as he sprinted out of the barn toward the Try-Ped.

Reginald was incredibly proud of the “Try-Ped,” a homemade go-kart put together with spare parts. The go-kart was green with “Try-Ped” painted crookedly in white lettering on the side, a name it kept from its original design: a wooden frame built with absolutely no bearings, riding on two rear bicycle tires and the front half of a Razor scooter bolted to the nose for steering. Attached to this frame was the back half of a bicycle, allowing one person to pedal from behind while another steered from the front. The nicest feature was the squishy skid-loader seat.

That pedal system worked fine until a downhill crash with his cousin completely destroyed the bicycle frame. Reginald rebuilt it by stealing an engine off the family log splitter and ordering a centrifugal clutch from a catalog—the only new part on the entire vehicle. Now, it could go 25 miles per hour, relying on “shoe brakes” to slow down.

The Try-Ped was parked right by the milk house. Reginald gripped the handle and yanked the starter cord, and the log-splitter engine roared to life.

He sped off toward the Newswanger farm. Knocking urgently on the front door, he was met by the mother.

“Yes, Reginald Haymaker, what can I help you with this late?” Mrs. Newswanger asked.

“Hi, Mrs. Newswanger. Do you think you could spare your daughter for an hour? I have a heifer pushing in a pen with twenty other cows, and I can’t separate her alone. My parents are away on vacation.”

“No problem. Norma will be right out on her bike. Could you follow behind to give her some light?”

“Sure thing, thank you.”

Listening from the stairs, Norma felt a surge of excitement. She couldn’t explain why, but she loved being around Reginald—even though her mother constantly warned her against it. Reginald wasn’t Amish, and her mother always reminded her how difficult it would be if they ever fell in love.

Reginald followed closely behind Norma, guiding her with the Try-Ped’s headlight until they pulled right up to the springer pen. Inside, the heifer was lying flat on her side, straining with each push. Reginald scrambled over the panels, climbed into the pen, and nudged the animal with his knees until she reluctantly stood up.

“Open the gate,” Reginald called out. “But only let the heifer in labor out.”

Norma moved naturally; she was inherently good with cattle. In fact, if she kept at it, she would easily become a far better cow person than Reginald. Reginald only half-cared about the cows anyway—his real passions lay with guns, explosions, and big, loud tractors running with no mufflers.

They successfully separated the heifer and wedged her safely behind a gate. Reginald needed to reach inside to ensure the calf was lined up correctly. He slid on a long, pink plastic sleeve, doused it in lube, and flipped a five-gallon bucket upside down behind the animal. Stepping onto the bucket, he carefully slid his arm into the birth canal. As his fingers found the calf, his stomach dropped. The legs were out, but they were the wrong legs—the calf was coming backward.

“Um, Norma, this is going to be hard,” Reginald said, his voice tightening. “The calf is backward. I think it’s a bull calf. The problem with a backward birth is that once the umbilical cord breaks, we only have about ten seconds to get him out before he suffocates. Go grab the pulling ropes—they’re hanging on the nail right by the door.”

Norma handed the ropes to Reginald, and he slipped a loop over each rear hoof. The ropes were knotted in such a way that the harder they pulled, the tighter they gripped. While veterinarians typically used stainless steel chains, Reginald’s father always insisted they were too rough on the livestock and strictly preferred soft ropes instead.

Working quickly, Norma slipped a halter over the heifer’s head and secured her tightly to the wall. Meanwhile, Reginald took the opposite end of the calving lines and tied them securely to a heavy steel gate, creating a crude pulley system to give them maximum leverage against the backward calf.

“Do you think we should call the vet?” Norma asked, as she looked at the backward hooves.

“No, we’ve got this,” Reginald replied, “It’s not that big of a calf.”

They grabbed the lines and threw their weight backward, bracing their boots against the muck. They pulled with everything they had, but nothing happened. The calf didn’t budge an inch.

“Wait!” Reginald said. “I forgot the J-Lube.”

He scrambled for the jug, pouring the slick, slimy lubricant generously over his gloved hands and thoroughly coating the heifer’s birth canal.

Grabbing the gate again, they waited for the next contraction and pulled. This time, the slick calf began to move. Inch by inch, the rear legs emerged until the wide, stubborn hips finally popped out of the birth canal. Reginald and Norma pulled as hard as they could; they grunted and gasp, faces flushed as they put every ounce of leverage into the final heave. Under the pressure, the exhausted heifer collapsed to her side, but they didn’t stop pulling. With one last explosive tug, the rest of the calf slid completely out onto the straw.

It lay perfectly still. No breathing, no movement—it looked dead.

Reginald scrambled over, grabbed a piece of stiff straw, and tickled the inside of the calf’s nostril to stimulate its reflexes. At the same instant, Norma scooped a handful of cold water from the water trough and splashed it squarely across the calf’s face. The newborn gasped, let out a wet cough, and suddenly came alive, shaking its head.

Before they could celebrate, the heifer scrambled back to her feet. Instead of mothering the newborn, she spun around fiercely, eyes wild, and started charging the very calf she had just delivered.

Reginald reacted instantly. He lunged forward, grabbed the calf, and dragged it out of the pen just as the heifer smashed against the gate. He hauled the newborn down the alleyway and slipped it into a separate pen filled with older, more mature cows. The older cows immediately crowded around, safely and gently licking the wet calf dry.

They stood together and watched as the older cows licked the newborn calf clean.

“That was a close one,” Norma said, wiping her hands.

“Yeah,” Reginald replied. “Usually, it’s me and my dad doing this.”

“Where are your parents anyway?” Norma asked.

“They’re out in Ohio visiting my older sister,” he said. “She has a sheep farm.”

Norma shrugged. “That’s cool. I never really liked sheep, though. I’ve gotta head out,”

“I’ll walk you back,” Reginald said. “Lemme just set the colostrum out to thaw first so it’s ready when I get back.”

Once the milk was thawing, they set out. Norma pushed her bike along the gravel road while Reginald walked beside her, using his headlamp to light the dark path.

When they reached her driveway, they stopped by the main road.

“Thanks for the help tonight, Norma,” Reginald said. “I would’ve lost that calf without ya.”

“No problem. Goodnight, Reginald,” she said, before heading up toward her house.

When he got back, the calf was completely dry. To make sure he wouldn’t accidentally get stepped on overnight, Reginald moved him into a small, individual pen packed with fresh straw and fed him the warm colostrum.

Reginald checked the springers one final time. There were no other cows in labor.

As he fell asleep that night, he found himself thinking about how good of a cow person Norma was.

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