Half an Hour into Independence Day, My Arms Were Covered With Blood

I snooze though four alarms most mornings: one at 5:15, 5:45, 6:20, and 6:45. I must be at the barn, in overalls and boots, by 7.

On July 4, after snoozing through 6:53am, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on my overalls. Sleep fogged my mind as I wiped and tested all the cows’ udders. Halfway through feeding the sheep, Nonni yelled for my attention. 

“Devin! Err calf!” 

He excitedly ushered me toward one cow’s rear end. A calf’s head partially protruded, enclosed in a membranous sac. I sleepily nodded my impressedness and stumbled back to finish distributing hay in the sheep house.

Then Nonni yelled again. Back I went. “Err more out,” he exclaimed. I shoved my way between two cows and made my way down the line. And there it was. If you can imagine an unpeeled egg, with the membrane still intact and a baby bird inside, that’s pretty much how it looked. Only the calf was a lot bigger than an egg, and only a fraction of it was exposed. The head and forefeet were almost completely visible and the baby was totally encapsulated in the fluid-filled sac. Suddenly Nonni whipped out his pocket knife and slit open the membrane. Bright yellow fluid, like an egg yolk, poured out and the calf took her first breath. Then he spoke to me. “Grab err legs!” 

“Me?” I asked. 

“Já!” 

I couldn’t tell if he was pranking me or being serious. I’ve had some trust issues since he convinced me to try milking a ram last month (city girl problems, am I right). So I asked again. “Grab the legs?” 

“Já!” He insisted, losing patience. “Pull!” 

So I did. I figured if he was joking, I had no ego to nurse. My sleeves were hardly rolled up enough, and I grabbed that baby calf’s slimy forelegs, braced myself, and pulled with all my weight. Her mama mooed once. (I suppose I would too, if someone was jerking my offspring from my behind.) Inch by inch that baby emerged. When she finally dropped to the ground behind her mother, she just lay there helplessly and licked her yolk-covered nose and Nonni congratulated me. My arms were covered with the yellow slime and blood, and if I wasn’t awake before, I sure was now. 

At breakfast, over a Fourth of July cake and homemade blueberry juice, Miss Elsa told me Nonni named the new mama cow Devin. The calf won’t have a name for a while. But just between you and me, I’m calling her Indie (short for Independence).