It was one of those two o'clock mornin'
calls: "Looked like everything was comin' jes fine, Doc, then he got
stuck! Could you come?-
"
On
the way out to the ranch I put the truck on autopilot while my foggy
brain sifted through the possibilities. Hip lock, more than likely, I
figgered. I walked into the calvin' barn, shook the snow off my coat
and surveyed the scene. Fairly peaceful. Two unshaven cowboys playin'
cards in front of the space heater and a good-sized heifer standing in
the chute looking no worse for the wear. "Good," I thought, "The boys
haven't worn the heifer out before they called." Or themselves either,
for that matter.
I
peeled down to my shortsleeve coveralls and went to survey the
battlefield. There, underneath the heifer's cocked tail, peering out at
the new world was Bentley, the baby bull calf. All I could see was his
head. With mama's help he'd gotten far enough to pop his nose and his
ears out and no further. He didn't seem in distress, just a little
embarrassed. He looked like some trophy hunter's prize hangin' on the
den wall.
Since
the umbilical cord hadn't broken yet he had no need to breathe but he
was lookin' around like a kid in a neck brace at the county fair. After
my examination I concluded he had one front leg into the birth canal
and the other pointing straight back. He was wedged in tight as a new
hat band.
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