Gimme the Dirt… On the Birth of a Calf

It’s spring in the Northeast. On Hilltop Farm that means it’s crunch time. The cows, the hay, the chickens, the hay, our garden, the HAY – it’s a huge amount of work that makes us grateful for the extra daylight. We time our calving season around warm weather because Wagyu calves aren’t cold-hardy. Calving has started in earnest here. Wei Xi produced the first spring calf when she had Waldo, a lovely little bull with splashy markings. Next came Fern, who gave birth to her dainty but frisky Fiona; it has been a bit chilly at night, so Fiona sports a bright purple calf coat that looks snazzy against her dark charcoal coloring. But our third, most recent calf is where this story begins.

Hozomi is one of our best cows. As the granddaughter of one of the foundation sires of the Wagyu breed in the US, she carries a genetic history we want to preserve and propagate in our herd. There’s something regal in her bearing that suggests she knows it. Hozomi is one of four cows in our herd with horns. Identical twins Aiko and Yoshiko (Hozomi’s mother), and Roxy also boast horns. We remove our cows’ horns when they’re young for numerous reasons, but the most important one is so the cows don’t hurt each other, or us. The four with these front-mounted spears wield them indiscriminately. Sometimes, during feeding time, we hear a crash of the headlocks that run the length of the manger, accompanied by loud, bawling, painful cries. Most often, the culprit is Hozomi: she walks along the line of cows eating their supper and rams her horns along their sides and rumps, digging them in their most sensitive parts, “just because.” It’s Hozomi of whom I’m most wary, and Hozomi I avoid when working in the pasture. In her defense, she’s never come after me, but she’s given me the hairy eyeball that says, “I’ll do it if I want to.” I give her a wide berth and keep Bart close if we are working with the cows. Mostly we just keep each other at arm’s length, Hozomi and I, and that works for both of us.

When Hozomi is expecting, she is notoriously overdue. This year was no different. Every day we checked her for signs of impending birth, but after four days we both started to feel a bit casual about it. Hozomi is an experienced and outstanding mother, so we worry less in a case like hers. This was her fifth calf, and her previous births were uneventful. After morning checks revealed no impending arrival on her fifth overdue day, I decided to make plans for lunch off the farm with a friend and then run errands in town. I took a shower and made extra time to put on makeup and do my hair. For most women this is a daily ritual, but primping is unusual for me since cows don’t mind that I’m not wearing mascara. I was wearing one of my favorite linen dresses, and I felt extra sassy when I walked to my car. As I drove out of the driveway past the barn, I stopped to check Hozomi as a last-minute thought. I didn’t see her in the freestall, so I walked the length of the manger in my very best loafers, trying my hardest not to get dirty. When I reached the back of the barn and peered across the barnyard toward the manure building, there was Hozomi, standing in the deepest part of the manure in the middle of a contraction, with one tiny hoof sticking out of her. My heart started to pound. Calves are born front feet first, and both hooves should’ve been visible. I didn’t panic (those who know me will understand the effort this took), and instead decided to stand where I was and watch from a distance. The rest of the herd was lying in the warm spring sunshine, so I had a clear view, and I texted my friend to let her know I’d be a few minutes late. After about 15 minutes of watching, I knew Hozomi was in trouble. She was alternating between lying down and standing up, and she was groaning. I hurriedly called Bart’s cell, but it went straight to voicemail. His mail route takes him way up into the hills where there’s no cell service, and I still couldn’t reach him after several frantic attempts. I wracked my brain, trying to think of someone close by who could help me. There was no one. I looked down at my cute dress, took one last sniff of the sweet shampoo smell of my clean hair, and ran back to the house to change. The James Beard finalist restaurant would have to wait, my lunch now canceled. In my head I could hear years of my husband’s noncommittal responses, whenever he was asked to go anywhere or do anything off the farm. “We’ll see,” he’d say, and still does; how irritating that was to me when we were dating! I sometimes wondered if he’d had a better offer, but now I know the women keeping him otherwise occupied were named Unity, America, Uma, and Utwo. Those other women were his cows. I’ve since gained understanding for his reluctance to mark the calendar in ink, but in this moment, I felt it keenly: farmers can’t count on plans because something – anything – could happen. And this time, it was happening to me.

I changed back into my trusty overalls, still dirty from morning chores, and my tall muck boots, and ran back to the barn. I paused before heading down into the barnyard, just to be sure Hozomi truly needed help. She did. Her back was hunched, and she was emitting a low, terrible groan with a new contraction. That one tiny hoof was pushing out of her, and now it was accompanied by a knee – not normal – and no sweet little calf’s nose in sight. I took what would be one of many deep breaths, squared my shoulders, and stepped down onto the concrete. I wove my way through the rest of the herd, who were now curious and heaving themselves to their feet. As I made my way to Hozomi, I realized she was standing in the worst part of the manure shed, a thick, brown ooze around her legs. Her rump was facing me, her horns blessedly aimed downward toward the wall of the bunker. When I reached her, I rested my hand on the top of her tail and spoke in the quiet tone I’d heard Bart use so many times: “It’s okay girl, I’m here. Let me help you, girl.” Hozomi went utterly still, so I took the opportunity to gently place my hand inside her. This is nothing I would ever do under any other circumstance. Bart has shown me what to look for, and he’s let me feel what a cow’s healthy birth canal should feel like, but this was something completely different. The cow was struggling, and the calf’s head wasn’t visible. I needed to figure out what was happening. I soon realized the calf’s neck was bent a bit, meaning every time Hozomi pushed, its head was turning sideways instead of moving down the birth canal. One leg was folded at the knee, not straight as it should be. And so, using one hand as gently as I could, and the other on her back to soothe her, I tried to change the position of the calf. Suddenly, the little muzzle was visible, a tongue lolling out of its mouth. The nostrils flared, and I knew the calf was alive. The leg came free next, and then I was pulling on two ankles in sync with Hozomi’s contractions. It was four contractions before the calf popped out of her in a slick, gooey mass. I felt instant relief for both the cow and calf, but the situation had suddenly changed for me.

As the calf slid free, I remembered we were all standing in a deep pile of manure. I attempted to move backward, but my feet were anchored – the manure went over the tops of my boots, above my knees. The calf was falling head down into the muck because I lost my grip on its slippery front legs. I started to fall, and hugged the upside-down body of the calf, saying aloud to Hozomi’s rump, “I’m going down!” As I fell in slow motion, I was aware of the heft of the calf, which I now held upside down around the middle, saw that it was a girl, and hoisted her upward so she didn’t dive nose-first into the manure. And then down I went, backward into the deep, wet sludge, the calf landing on top of me, my legs pinioned, and my own rump sinking quickly. Hozomi wheeled around so fast it startled the audience of nosy cows who’d encircled us, and they scattered – how well they’ve learned the lesson of her horns! I found myself face-to-face with new mother Hozomi, a brow full of menacing horns, which she shook at me with her head down and her ears straight out. She was looking me square in the eye. I felt myself surrender. I looked back into her eyes, and in my head said, “There’s nothing I can do.” Maybe she took pity on me, or maybe the pull of her baby distracted her, but the next thing I knew, she was licking and cooing to her calf, still on top of me, while I tried to figure out how to extricate myself. I sat up, pulled my feet out of my boots, and then dug in the manure for them. In my stocking feet, I dragged the calf to a dry patch on the concrete, grabbed my muck-encrusted boots, and squished back through the barn to the milkhouse hose. I rinsed my boots and socks and trudged up to the house barefoot. I stripped right there on the lawn. Clothing that filthy has no place in the washing machine I also use for that linen dress I was wearing a short while ago: instead, I would hose it all off and double wash it later. The details we need to think of on this farm, for even something as simple as laundry, are never-ending. Once my hands were clean enough to touch my phone, I called my husband. This time he was back in cell service range – it just figures – and he answered on the first ring. I recounted my story, and through the phone, I could hear him chuckle. He said, “Today you moved your tassel to the other side of your graduation cap!” I grinned. If I hadn’t been here, who knows what might have happened. Perhaps Hozomi would have managed things just fine on her own. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a happy ending. But I know what I saw. I felt Hozomi needed help, and so I helped her. I know, when she looked in my eyes, that she knew it, too.

I often question my worth in terms of dollars and cents. Farming is demanding work, physically and mentally, and I work hard. But the tangibles aren’t so obvious when the bank statement arrives. Despite the generous reassurances of my husband, I’ve had a nagging feeling that I’m an imposter here, a thought that is sometimes unwittingly (or maybe knowingly) validated by folks who call me “the farmer’s wife” or who assume he does the farm work and I run the business. The fact is, we both wear all the hats, they just fit differently on each of us. With the birth of Hozomi’s little Haya, I lost that sense of being a misfit. I’ve graduated into my role here. And her name? The original root of the word refers to “a bad or uneasy feeling accompanied by embarrassment.” It was fitting after my manure escapade bringing her into the world. The full meaning of her name is “life; universal feathers.” Just perfect to stick in all those different hats I’m wearing these days.

Photos courtesy of Rebecca Collins Brooks

+ + +

Rebecca Collins Brooks is a writer and farmstead cheesemaker on Hilltop Farm in Accord, NY. She is the creator and founder of The Meeting of the Milkmaids, a gathering of women working in the cheese and dairy industry. In addition to a small herd of dairy cows, she and her husband Barton raise Wagyu beef, selling meat to customers directly off the farm. Her best friends are two terriers, Winston and Molly; and Sylvie, a truly brilliant barn cat. You can visit the farm by appointment to see where truly good food is grown.

Connect with Rebecca via Instagram @catskillwagyu, on Facebook CatskillWagyu

And check out > INSIDE+OUT Spotlight on Catskill Wagyu at Hilltop Farm