By David O. Heishman
I walked a narrow cow path through tall weeds along Moore’s Run searching for a newborn calf. My walking stick helped clear overhanging growth from before my face. Under a tall cedar, I whacked a thick grape vine hanging from it. Almost instant rising humming buzz. Fast glance, a large hornet’s nest below weed level attached to grape vine. I ran.
I ran dodging trees, through weeds, over rocks, thrashing, beating, knocking, fighting with bare hands, no stings. Gasping for breath, heart hammering, I stopped, turned and one hornet hit me above right eyebrow.
I ran again, though not so far or hard. My world was turning dark, sweat pouring, head throbbing. Scared.
I made it to the creek nearby. Laid down in the cool water on my back, face up, head against a rock so at least I wouldn’t likely drown. No real idea how long I lay there. Breathing slowed to normal and no more thundering in my chest. Forehead swelled around that sting, eye closing. Felt bunch better. Crawled to my feet and headed toward home and Mom’s exasperated overhaul for not being more careful in the woods by myself.
Next morning proud mama cow appeared, new healthy calf in tow. A taunt for nearly killing myself attempting to find where she’d hidden her baby.
A new mother grazing with the herd. No baby with her. Not to worry, she’d bring him out of hiding when she was ready. She didn’t.
Rear end dried up, no evidence of calf nursing. Her life back to normal with no evidence of the baby to which she’d obviously given birth.
Two days I searched our woods. No small red Hereford calf to be found. No snow white ears and muzzle tucked in to help it hide. I crossed and circled woods I’d walked and hunted all my life to no avail.
I paused near one of my favorite trees, a large Cucumber. Dumb luck. A pile of leaves nearby. kicked it apart. The calf, covered. Cows may hide newborn calves, but they don’t cover them. Leaves gone, I saw hind quarters were missing, chewed away.
That evening I consulted a game warden. He said likely Bobcat. Cat’s den likely not far away. Look for rock crevices. A creviced area Somewhere among old nearby. 35mm slides I have a picture of the packet of sticks and leaves I found under an overhanging rock a couple hundred yards from that dead calf.
Bob Peyton was a calf hunting Godsend. Bob was our farm help for years. He could produce best imitation of fear stricken hurting calf I ever heard. He’d make smug mother cows bee line straight to hidden calf in a moment.
Typically, one cow in a feeding herd showed definite signs of new birth. Maybe a couple days gone by, obvious signs of suckling baby everything probably OK, but still, It’s easier sleeping at night if you’ve seen and know for sure. Pap, the veterinarian sometimes overruled Pap the farmer and demanded to assess animal health with his senses.
“Go bawl, Bob” Bob had a favorite Maple he’d hide behind over Moore’s Run’s high bank. He’ squat, cup hands around his mouth and cry like a terrified calf. Mama’s head would rise, she’d look off toward woods and away she’d go. Nothing to do, but try to keep her in sight, usually my job. Invariably calf would be on it’s feet nuzzling Momma’s flank, getting its tail licked by the time I caught up with her.
It’s amazing what adventure simple farm chores can produce.
