"Floppy" was born April 26, 2011. Initially, I had no hopes for this newborn who couldn't sit up, let alone stand and eat by herself. Floppy laid there in the alleyway pen for nearly a week, being tube-fed every morning and evening, before she was able to sit up by herself.
Whereas most young calves stand and eat within an hour or two after birth, Floppy could hardly hold her head up by herself for more than a few seconds before violently flipping her head around in wild circles. It was painful to watch as she swung her head around and around, stopping only when she lay flat out on her side.
We decided to give her a chance, and a week after she was born, Floppy - who still could not stand, but could sort of sit up and drink almost a whole bottle by herself - was loaded into the skidloader bucket and moved up into the calfbarn.
It was at this point, when Floppy became one of my young charges, that I began to root for the calf. Those wide, unfocused, unblinking eyes were so trusting, and she was so dependent on people for survival. My heart melted, and after every feeding I would help little Floppy try to stand.
Nearly two weeks after she was born, Floppy stood up for the first time by herself. I stood in the calfbarn and watched as, limb after unsteady limb, she hoisted herself up without assistance. She lifted her wobbly head - and started flipping it around again, knocking herself to the ground.
Over the next few days, Floppy progressed rapidly. She was finally able to stand on her own, and could even manage a few steps; however, she tended to start flipping her head around and almost inevitably landed on the ground. Soon, though, Floppy was able to walk short distances, albeit with a rather pronounced drunken swagger.
Eventually, the vet came for a monthly herd check and we called him up to the calfbarn to diagnose this anomaly. He determined that, most likely, Floppy had an underdeveloped cerebellum, which caused her sense of balance and depth perception to be extremely "off" - to the point where she didn't always know exactly where her limbs were at any given time. This explained the drunken stumble she ever so characteristically walked with. The vet said that, given time and care, she might eventually be able to have a calf and be a "normal" cow.
I decided that Floppy was a mean name, because she couldn't help it. I decided to rechristen her "Baby", because to me, that's what she was.
Underdeveloped cerebellum and all, this calf was a fighter. Baby was a testament to the Ayrshire breed - any Jersey with her condition most likely would have laid down and died, not put up a struggle at all. Baby persevered, and soon would race to the gate when she saw me coming, and learned eventually to drink from a bottle rack.
Baby was like a puppy. Uncoordinated and trusting, she would follow you from one end of the barn to the other simply to be beside you, not to goose you in the butt like most calves. Baby just wanted to be pet, and I gave in to her requests nearly every time.
Baby's eyes didn't focus, and she couldn't follow a moving object if it went out of her range of sight - she didn't turn her head to follow because if she did, she would fall over. And she didn't blink - her dilated pupils looked after you constantly - until you exited her range of vision.
Baby was hilarious to watch. After I finished chores, I would stand outside the pen, arms resting on the gate, just to watch her. As long as there were no obstacles in her path, Baby would race back and forth on those ungainly legs, and occasionally would lose her balance or trip over a piece of twine, comically skidding to a stop (usually on her face).
When Baby was two and a half months old, I left for college. I fed my calves one last time, petting each one on the head, and said my goodbyes to Baby, who had become one of my favorites in the calf barn. A more polite calf I have never met. I gave her a hug, went home, and left for college the next morning.
I'd talk to mom on the phone a few times a week, and asked her every now and again how Baby was. "Floppy, you mean?" Mom would ask, "She's doing okay. We just weaned her." I was interested to know how this would work out, since bottle calves are housed somewhat individually and weanlings are in group housing.
Baby, it appeared, had never really developed the "fighting" instinct when it comes to getting to the food. She'd basically had everything handed to her on a silver platter, and never had to compete for a feeding space. It took her nearly a week before she realized that other calves don't take turns; you have to get in there with everyone else before the food is gone.
When I came home for my first break, I went up on the hill to see my Baby. She hadn't grown much, but my little girl still remembered me. Holding her head at her characteristic tilt, Baby appeared quizzical, but I knew better. Baby swaggered up to the fence, put her head through, and licked me on the arm in her traditional greeting. I petted her for awhile, and went to go do my chores.
Unfortunately, that fighting instinct becomes more and more a necessary thing as calves get older and have to compete for bunk space. Baby, who still had not mastered this technique, was only maintaining her size, not growing as the rest of the calves. This disadvantage would become more pronounced as the other calves grew larger and edged Baby out. Although the vet had said that Baby could become a good cow, it just wasn't in the cards. Baby left our farm just after four months of age.
I miss my little girl, who, unlike other calves, seemed to retain her baby-calf innocence and trust. But as a farm kid, I understand that sometimes sentimentality just doesn't work on real working farms - a profit must be made. It would have been unfair for Baby to fall behind and risk getting sick or beat up because she was so small, so she had to leave. And I also know that there's a special place for Baby up in heaven, where she's having fun in a big, green pasture with all the other calves and cows that we've loved and lost.
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