On a ranch, spring always arrives at least a month before the rest of the world. While those in town are still wrapped in a blanket and curled up in front of their heaters with a good book, ranchers are slogging through the snow in tattered, cow shit covered Wranglers and muck boots, looking for new calves. If they are blessed with a healthy herd and the right genetics in their bull, those calves will be born as God intended. Mama will feel those first contractions, lift her tail and start pushing. Within a half an hour to an hour, the front hooves will appear, with the nose resting on top. Mama will lay down, start more fierce pushing, and the baby will slide out unabated, into a new world of tongue baths and warm milk.
If the rancher is not so fortunate, he or she will find themselves laying in the slush, bicep deep in the south end of a cow, wrapping a looped rope around the calf’s front feet. Next, they will be attaching a come-a-long to the rope and securing it to a fence post, or their pickup truck, if they can grip it in their slick brown hands. The calf will be pulled one click at a time until it’s free.
If the calf is rejected by mama, the rancher steps in as a surrogate. Usually the fluid covered baby is placed on the floorboards of the pickup, under the heater, and the rancher drives it to the barn where it can be cleaned, dried, and begin the process of drinking from a bottle every few hours, for the next several months. (Ranchers don’t sleep much) There is obviously much more involved, but I hope I have at least given you an idea of the commitment it takes to be a rancher.
So the next time you go to your favorite steak-house and order that medium rare rib-eye, remember that book you were reading, remember that cozy feeling of a soft blanket, and say a prayer of thanks for those that keep the world fed.