Frustration is watching a freshly calved heifer repeatedly reject her eager calf at four o’clock on Good Friday morning. Again and again he approached her; again and again she darted away, hitting him the odd dig in the process. It was like the basement in Coppers all over again.
Though there was little malice in her attempts to flick him away, her relative enormity meant that the calf was playing a dangerous game. Dad and I leant on the gate, spectating, yawning and acting referee whenever we felt the calf was in danger.
Expectant cows stuck their heads through the gate for a lick of the unwanted calf, but there was no stir from his own mother who stood back-chawing across the pen. She wasn’t ready for such a drastic lifestyle change.
It was as if nature was mocking us.
His back was saltier than a Full-Irish and he’d received three coatings of the bull’s finishing meal. But she had shown no interest whatsoever and continued to swat him away
We’d tried our best to entice her. At that stage his back was saltier than a Full-Irish and he’d received three coatings of the bull’s finishing meal. But she had shown no interest whatsoever and continued to swat him away.
After half an hour, with both calf and cow seeming to settle down, we decided that we would too.
We made sure the odds were in the calf’s favour before leaving. More salt, more meal, some fresh silage and a bit of placenta formed a smorgasbord that was sure to entice the new mother.
The next morning, porridge bowl in hand, I prised the remote from my sister’s grasp and switched on shed-o-vision.
Mother standing proudly; calf suckling furiously.
Though the odds were against him, he’d eventually gotten his Good Friday drink.
SHARING OPTIONS