Just a few weeks ago, I had to make my first tough decision on what I will someday soon call my farm. The reason I say this is because it’s not my farm just yet. Technically, it’s my fiancé’s family farm, though I’ve considered it to be partly my own for the last several years.
During the three years that my fiancé and I have been dating I’ve helped make a few hard decisions that involved the farm, but I was never the sole decision maker. Sure, I’d offer up my opinion and even throw in a bit of advice when I could, but the final say was always for his family and him to decide. But just a few weeks ago it was my turn to make a tough call, and I got to experience what it was like to make a hard decision.
Three years ago, when my fiancé and I first started dating, I paid a visit to his family’s farm and brought my trusty camera along. My opinion might be biased, but I’ve always thought their dairy is one of the most beautiful farms in the area, so I wanted to capture a few photos of it one hot summer night.
As I stood in their dry cow pasture, I remember meeting a certain cow who knew how to pose for the camera. Her number was 1515, who I later found out was named Joyful, and I instantly fell in love with her ‘in charge’ personality.
Over the years, I quickly began to consider Joyful as my cow. I had recently moved 500 miles from my home farm, so it was comforting to walk into the barn and see a cow who I treated as my own. She recently was classified at Excellent 92 and milked like a tank, so I was proud to have picked this girl out as my own.
During the first year that I had moved to the farm, Joyful had given birth to a bull calf. I was frustrated, but knew that not every calf could be a heifer. That spring, Joyful was rebred and I was hopeful for a heifer calf this time around. As her due date approached, I found myself checking on Joyful more than I did the other dry cows, and eagerly anticipated her calf’s arrival.
One drizzly fall night, Joyful finally started to show signs of labor. My fiancé’s cousin checked her throughout the night and helped her deliver a live heifer calf. The birth didn’t come without its difficulties, though. The calf came into the world upside down and backwards, a position that can often prove fatal. Nonetheless, this calf had survived, and I was ecstatic!
That night, the calf was tubed its colostrum as it wasn’t quite willing to drink on its own. The next morning, I went out to the barn to feed it its second feeding, but it still wasn’t drinking very well by itself. During the third feeding, Joyful’s calf seemed eager to drink, but as it nursed on the bottle hardly any milk was being consumed.
I’ve fed calves for most of my life, but I’ve never experienced a calf quite like this. Perplexed, I stuck my finger insider her mouth to examine the problem and was crushed by what I discovered. This calf had a severe cleft palate, a deformity I had never dealt with before.
After about 30 minutes of trying, I was finally able to get the calf to drink its bottle. I was worn out from assisting it for so long, but I was happy to finally see it consuming its milk. That evening, I did my research and asked a few farmers if it was possible to raise a calf with a cleft palate. They assured me that it would be difficult, but that it could be done. I was hopeful, and I decided I’d name the calf just that. Hopeful.
As I headed out the next morning to feed Hopeful, I felt more confident in her outcome. I did my research and was sure I’d be able to pull this one off. But as I went to give Hopeful her morning feeding, I was heartbroken with what I discovered.
Hopeful had a large hernia on her abdomen and was breathing difficultly. She still seemed eager to eat, but the abscess on the underside of her belly was not a good sign. My stomach sank, as I knew the chances of this calf surviving were not good. I called my fiancé and had him look at the calf. After examining her, he looked at me with sad eyes and said, “This one’s your call.”
I knew the day would eventually come where I would have to make a hard decision on my own at the farm, but I wasn’t ready for it to be then. My stomach was in knots as I finished feeding the rest of the calves and my mind was racing trying to weigh out the pros and cons. I had waited so long for Joyful to finally have a heifer calf, and I was so excited when I heard the news. But I knew from the business side of things that it didn’t make financial sense to perform hernia surgery on a calf who was already struggling from a cleft palate and the early onset of pneumonia. Hopeful’s health was declining, and I had to make the call.
And so, I did. I held back tears of frustration, anger and grief as I told my fiancé to put the calf down. I felt like a failure that day even though I had done everything I possibly could to save that calf. But I’m thankful for Hopeful and the lessons she taught me.
She reminded me of what it was like to truly be involved on the farm. Some days are great and you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Others are crushingly hard as you must make the tough decisions nobody wants to make. While the decision to put Hopeful down was a hard one, I feel as if it prepared me to help make some of those hard decisions on what will someday be my family’s farm.
While I might not have been able to keep Hopeful, I’m thankful Joyful is healthy and doing well this lactation. Being an optimist, I’m “hopeful” another heifer calf is in Joyful’s future. And I’ll be there, ready to take care of it if it is.
