For unto you a child is born

. . . a baby calf, that is, on the farm of Prairie Winds.  Today, field cow, Opal, gave birth to an adorable baby girl.  But first let me give you a little background on Opal.

Opal and I have become buddies ever since I started to save my morning banana peels and feed them to her as I walk up the driveway.  I have found her waiting expectantly for me even when the other cows are elsewhere in the field.  One day I stopped by the fence and she came trotting over from the middle of the field to snag that tasty treat.  Opal lets me pet her even when I don't have peels for her.  The other cows are not nearly as enthusiastic about the banana peels as Opal is, and so it has been that our friendship was born of the banana peel.

So you see that Opal and I are friends and that she has endeared herself to my heart.  Therefore, it was much to my surprise (we didn't think she was due until May) that I got a text at 3:17 this afternoon which read "Opal had her calf!"  I immediately put down my current book, Les Miserables (and I'm on the really good part too), raced down stairs, pulled on my coveralls, coat and hat and headed to the field where Opal and her calf were just standing there as though it had been this way for days already.  Our first order of business is to get mama and calf out of the cold and into a stall inside the barn.  This seemingly simple task is complicated by two factors: 1) baby cow is not an expert walker yet and 2) Mama doesn't want to go anywhere.

I don't know how many of you have ever been around a new-born cow, but when I think "baby," I think little tiny, disoriented, perhaps slimy, eyes still shut, fumbling around infant animal.  I do not think of a walking, independently mobile, and self-willed animal who is furry and roughly the size of many of our full-grown sheep and goats, or a large dog (think doberman pincer size).  So I guess this calf had been born a few hours ago, but still, that is either pretty quick development or cows are just born a little less helpless than most other species' infants.

Back to the main objective: to transport Opal and calf inside the barn.  At first we tried to pick up the calf only to discover that the calf was far too heavy to carry all the way to the barn.  Then we tried to sit her on a sled and give her a ride to the barn.  This attempt failed because, like I said, this calf was independently mobile and did not like to sit in the moving sled.  Then we tried scooting the calf along from the rear and this is the approach that gave us our most success.  Now, all we had to worry about was getting Opal into the barn. I should mention that up until now, we had been laboring under the assumption that where baby goes, mama will go, as guided by her natural, protective instincts, of course.  This assumption quickly proved to be quite mistaken.  As it turns out Opal was much more difficult to persuade toward the barn than her calf was.  We couldn't push her because, well she weighs at least 1000 pounds.  We couldn't gently guide her because she's in crazy-mama mode!  As I walked toward her, she walked away.  At this point, I am lamenting not having any banana peels on hand with which to entice her.  Charlotte (who is the amazing farmer I am working with, btw) yelled instructively at me not to let her get away, so I ran after her.  It turns out cows are faster than people, or at least Opal is faster than I am.  We thought Opal wouldn't run past the horses because she would be scared of them.  Opal didn't care about those darn horses, she was getting away!  Finally she ran herself to the dead-end of the little pasture avenue and I caught up with her.  At this point I have learned that if I go toward Opal, she will run away from me, so I chase her all the way back down the pasture avenue toward the barn.  As Opal's trot increases, I have to run faster too, lest she gain enough distance and evade me yet again.  I chug along as speedily as the mire in which I tread allows me, my rubber galoshes sinking into a hearty mixture of mud, snow, melted snow and poo.  The thaw of the day lends itself to make this earthy concoction just the right consistency to stick to my boots with every down step and fling up across my back with every lifting of my heal, which become increasingly more forceful the faster I attempt to run.

At long last Opal and her calf are situated in a comfy stall, freshly strewn with a nice bedding of sawdust.  Charlotte and I look on with satisfaction and tenderness at mama-cow and baby-cow.  What is in store for this brand-new calf?  She is slated to become a dairy cow (a happy one of course, not one of those sad ones you see from the huge factories).  I have proposed we name the calf  Hermione; I don't think I've got Charlotte sold on the name just yet, but Hermione gets my vote.