To every last mother…

Swiss cows traditionally wear large metal bells on decorative leather belts around their necks. It’s not just a quaint tradition, but it has a real purpose. In each herd, every cow’s bell is tuned to a different pitch. As the cows go from the pasture to the barn, the farmer can keep track of his cows by listening for the tune of the herd. If one cow is missing, a farmer will hear it before he sees it.

The weekend before Mother’s Day, our farmer noted that one cow had not come back in from the pasture. He found her lying down, ready to give birth. He wasn’t surprised by this. After all, he is in charge of making sure how and when each milking cow becomes pregnant. And he knew it was her time. But still, she seemed to be struggling a little bit. He felt around for the calf inside her. The calf was facing forwards, but the head was turned backwards. A dangerous situation for the calf, and the mother.

Meanwhile, Henry and Sarah were showing my college friend Will around the farm while I bottled milk. I was in the milking room when the farmer came in, speaking to me in his usual Swiss German:

“Hey, Doc! Good thing you’re here. There’s a cow giving birth and she’s having some trouble. I called the vet, but since you’re here…”

“Uh,” I replied, not knowing what to say next. “What kinda trouble is she having?”

“Oh the calf’s head is turned backward, so she needs help delivering. She’s in the next pasture.” He paused. “I’m kidding you. I know this isn’t your thing.” Relieved, I asked if we could go see her. “Sure, no problem,” he said, “The vet will be here soon to help.”

At this point, it became clear that this was not just another normal day at the farm. Sarah, Will, Henry and I went to the pasture next door where a large cow was sitting down in the field. There were a few spectators there, and kids were coming and going as well. I’m sure the cow was uncomfortable, and may have preferred a smaller viewing audience, but she was otherwise fairly docile.

Soon the vet came and administered some relaxing medicine to the cow. Then things “got real” so to speak. The vet, now shoulder deep in cow, was busy threading some ropes into the cow to grab hold of the calf’s front legs. He was not able to turn the calf’s head forward, so they would have to pull it out. Once the ropes were applied, and the front hooves delivered, the Vet, the Farmer, and a Neighbor (who supplied a bucket of water to “wash” the cow’s backside) all began pulling as though they were in a giant, epic game of tug-o-war.

For a few minutes the cow laid quietly, sedate, while three grown, strong, Swiss men pulled this calf to its birth. Within about ten minutes, the calf was out. It was a boy. The farmer rubbed the head of the calf to stimulate him. The vet “cleaned” his tools and put his gear away. The Neighbor took his watering can back home. Kids came and went. A light rain fell and quickly subsided.

And very shortly, within a minute after the calf was born, the mom, previously sedate and unable to lift her head much above her shoulders, rose up onto her feet, turned around and quickly moved everyone away from her calf, so she could clean him. She licked him from head to toe, letting him know that she was there, and things were going to be okay.

We knew it was our time to leave. Everyone seemed to know that the two cows needed time to be alone. As we walked away towards our bikes, towards our home, carrying with us our youngest child, bringing bottles of fresh milk to feed our own kids, I looked back one more time at the cow with her calf, alone together in the field. A mother, and her newborn.

4 Replies to “To every last mother…”

  1. Dearest Joe, Thank you for this most wonderful latest blog. I was so touched by all your insightful and sentimental notations, Uncle Jeff and Aunt Dianne would be proud of your observations!! We hope things are going well and we miss you to bits!! Love Mom Did they name the cow (or bull) Molly???

    1. Actually, Sarah and Henry went back to the farm a few days later to get some milk and visit the new calf. She saw the farmer and told him that we had been calling the calf “Will” after our friend who was visiting. “Ah, Willi”, the farmer said, “That’s a good name.” So, now we’ve named a cow in Switzerland.

  2. Joe, The hooves came out first. That’s orthopedics, isn’t it?? You, the vet and the farmer would be the perfect trio in such a situation. Would love to hear Henry’s version of the event!!! Another Swiss life time story for the Schwab family!! YLFIL

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