Serve Me

Was that what Paris was like for her? Lots of stumbling?

“Alright, alright. I’m here,” the vet said pulling me from my thoughts.

“Thanks for comin’,” I murmured.

“Alright, lemme take a look.”

The vet got down onto her level and didn’t seem happy that she was laying down.

“You know when she lied down?” he asked.

“She was lyin’ down when I came in here.”

“Shit, alright.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Lyin’ down means she’s tired, and if she’s tired it means she’s probably been in labor all night.”

“God, I think I would’ve heard her if she had been mooin’ all night.”

“You’d be surprised. If the contractions were really far apart, the mooin’ she would’ve been doing would’ve sounded completely normal because she wouldn’t have been tired yet.”

“Shit,” I breathed.

I watched him pop on a glove that went all the way up to his shoulder before he spread Vaseline on himself. I bent over and pressed a kiss to my cow before he shoved his hand deep into her body, and it killed me to see the pain and fear wash over my animal’s eyes. She was so frightened, and I was so clueless, and I made a mental note to take some classes somewhere on how to deal with this next time.

How to be more prepared.

“Alright. I’m gonna have to intervene. Otherwise we’re gonna end up with a stillborn. Scoot me my bag.”

I jutted my leg out and scooted it towards him, and all I tried to do was keep her distracted. Sweat was rollin’ down my face, and she kept trying to kick the man with the intrusion in her body, but when I looked back up, I saw the calf’s back legs dangling on the ground.

“I’ve almost got it. Keep her still,” he grunted.

Before I knew it, a calf in a fluid sac came spilling out from my heifer, and she finally relaxed with relief. She panted onto my lap and her eyes slowly closed, and the vet got to work and getting the calf out of the sac.

“Keep that heifer awake. Alright?” he commanded.

I slowly tapped her face, but I couldn’t get her to open her eyes. I tapped a bit harder and saw them open for a split second, but they were glassy and unfocused.

“Doc, I think we got a problem,” I said lowly. I heard a tear before a large amount of fluid spilled around us, and the doctor was helping the calf onto its feet.

“Tap as hard as you can, but you gotta keep that momma awake!” he yelled.

I tapped harder and harder, but when her eyes closed, they didn’t open. Her breathing was short and labored, and tears rose to my eyes when I realized what was happening.

“Please don’t leave me, too,” I breathed.

“Come on, momma,” the vet purred, “you gotta stay alive and get this youngin’ fed.” The calf was slowly gaining its balance in the corner and looked to be the very essence of new life itself, but my tears fell onto my heifer’s face when I realized she wasn’t gonna wake up.

“Not you, too. Please,” I whispered.

I watched her breathing slowly come to a stop, and I felt like I was gonna vomit. Her teats were leaking milk that her calf needed desperately, almost like her body was trying to reach out one last time. I pried one of her eyes open in an attempt to find hope, to find something or someone that wasn’t gonna leave me today.

But all I was met with was an empty, glassy stare.

Just like my empty, glassy house.