My parents bought the land that we currently live on just a little over a year before I was born. It was covered in the furious plant entitled kudzu. If you have never seen it, then just know that to can overtake your land (and possibly you) if you stand still too long. They decided from the moment that they got the land that they were going to need some livestock to help contain it, so there came the cattle.
My love for cows just came naturally. I am not really scared of them, but I do have a healthy respect for them for obvious reasons. All of my neighbors have cows and I am pretty sure my grandfather, who lived just across the highway from me, had some cows too.
We had never really had to take too much care of the cows because they were pretty good and very low maintenance, but things changed last spring. We welcomed a new calf in the pasture, but we quickly noticed that he was weak and was not getting too much to eat. This set my family into panic mode because this has never happened. We knew though that the first thing we had to do was get the baby some good milk, but it would have to come from another source than his biological mother, and this is where things get down and dirty.
My dad runs to our local farm store and picks up some bottles and formula for baby cows and we decide that he and I will attempt to bottle-feed him. If I am being honest, I think my dad and I were terrified, because cows, just like any other animal, is very protective of their young and they can have short fuses if you start to mess with their babes. I slide on my rain boots, find some courage, and march myself down to the pasture. Things do get a little scary once we get into the pen because they can sense that we are nervous, but we have no luck getting the little calf to drink any of the milk from my bottle that I made him.
This went on for approximately two days with me going to attempt to feed the baby cow every 4 hours.
I was becoming discouraged because I knew that the little one would not last long without any nutrients, but the day came.
The sweet little baby saw me coming down one day and met me at the gate and was ready to eat. He downed that entire bottle and wagged his tiny little tail the entire time. I am pretty sure I cried during the whole experience. He grew and grew as I continued to be his "milk mom." He would moo at me if I was talking too slow or took too long to mix his bottle, but he was my precious babe. I even got a vet to come out and make sure he was doing okay because I adore him.
After some time I decided to name him and became known as Francis.
We were the besets of friends.
Right after we had gotten well into spring last year, Francis stopped taking my bottles. I kept trying and trying but he just got to where he did not want it anymore, which was very odd. I would still go down and try, but I was unsuccessful for a few days. I was growing worried, but I tried to stay calm.
A few days had passed and my dad came to tell me that Francis had passed. It was heart-wrenching. Francis was the first baby cow that I had to fully take care of and I treasured our bond. He passed due to sickness and we found out that there was nothing that any human could have done to save him.
Francis may just have been a cow to some, but he taught me so much about what it means to take care of something else besides myself.
