Maybe it's fitting that I became a cattleman of sorts about the same time President Bush dropped the cowboy act. As predicted here, Bush confirmed that he and Laura will move to a posh Dallas neighborhood after a relieved nation watches them leave the White House next January. How long before the Crawford ranch, acquired in 1999 for transparently political purposes, goes on the market?
The correct answer is: Who cares?
Besides, this column is about Layla, the Charolais wonder calf. I was recently out for an afternoon ride on Rusty, my quarter horse, when we came upon my neighbor, who rents my pasture for his cattle.
One of his cows had given birth to twin calves, not good. They're often premature, undersized and weak. The mother is likely to choose the stronger calf and leave the other to die -- bovine Darwinism.
Paul was trying to coax the little white heifer, all spindly legs and big brown eyes, to stand and nurse from her mother's teats. Without fresh mother's milk (colostrum), she wouldn't get the antibodies she needed to survive.
He wasn't having much luck. The heifer's mother was already showing signs of ignoring her for the stronger bull calf.
When I rode back later, the herd had moved on. The little heifer lay alone under some trees. After sundown, she'd
basically be coyote bait. Rusty and I tried herding the mother back to her. Anxious to protect her other calf, however, the mother cow -- all 1,500 pounds of her -- was spoiling for a fight.
Rusty's no cutting horse and I'm no cowboy. So I put him up, drove out in my truck, picked the heifer up and tried setting her on her feet among the herd. Her mother actually ran. Tottering along bawling, the little heifer tried to nurse other cows, which kicked her.
I volunteered to bottle-feed her if Paul would teach me. He allowed, as how she'd be mine if I could keep her alive, which he doubted. He and his wife came by to show me the ropes.
By morning, she was substantially weaker, unable to stand, barely able to nurse a bottle. Paul showed me how to tube-feed, inserting a plastic tube down her throat and pouring milk into a hot-water bottle hung from a nail.
Like every cattleman I talked to, he was fatalistic. "I don't know if I'd fool with it," he'd say. "It's 90 percent she'll be dead by morning.'"
Indeed, when I carried her into the stall we prepared for her, the little heifer hung limp in my arms. She couldn't stand. Yet when I'd force the feeding tube into her esophagus, she'd struggle against the insult. I felt she was a fighter; I felt she wanted to live.
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