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The new calf spills to the ground and steams in the March chill, its body slicked-wet and trembling, and Lambert drops back onto his ass in the frozen mud, the tension in his muscles from pulling the calf free of its straining mother puddling away. Eskel snorts as he leans to check the cow, her heaving sides rattling in the grip of the chute.
“You forget what the miracle of birth looks like?” asks Eskel, and Lambert grunts.
“Ugh,” he groans. “Too damn early for this.”
“Whose idea was it to keep the cattle herd instead of selling?"
"Drunk Lambert. Shouldn’t have listened to him. He’s got notoriously terrible ideas.”
Dawn has just started to peek along the edge of the treeline windbreak. Glad for the spotlights in the back drylot or neither of them would be able to see fuck all.
“Damn it,” Eskel cusses as he leans a palm on the backside of the cow in the chute. The old girl’s been around Morhen farms for ages now, usually calves out fine, but not this time. Had to step in to bring her in and pull the calf by hand. “She’s bleeding pretty good still. Maybe hemorrhaging. I’ll be back.”
He fucks off, leaving Lambert with the cold creeping up into his ass and legs and a watery newborn blinking at him with dewy eyes.
“Shit.” He snags a dry towel from the calving bag slung over the fence and drapes the calf in it, digging with his knuckles to muss dry the wet fur. The little thing stiffens its neck and makes a sound of protest, and the mother cow lows in the chute, trying to turn back to get to her baby.
As the light pales up over the drylot, Lambert can see what had Eskel so concerned. The old girl’s a Holstein cross, more white than black, except now she’s blood-red across her legs and backside. She lists in the chute, her breathing deep and labored, and Lambert has to look away. He fucking hates this part and always has. Doesn’t know any farmer who’s numbed to it.
The calf strains up against his hands, naturally wary of being touched, and he kneels to shush it, its little limbs knocking against him as it struggles.
“Quiet now, no more fussing,” he says. “Suspect you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, so might as well get used to it. I know. Lucky you.” The calf blinks up at him from under the drape of the towel, all long lashes and pink nose. “Sorry, kid. Looks like life’s dealt you a shit hand already. That’s alright. Can tell you’re a tough little bastard. You’ll be–”
“You sweet-talking that calf, Lamb?” Eskel’s got Vesemir in tow and a shotgun slung across his back.
“Yeah, I’m a romantic,” he says. Leaning close to the calf, he mutters, “You’re lucky it’s me here with you. Eskel’s a soft touch. Would tell you all kinds of rose-tinted bullshit. But I’ll tell you the truth. Life’s started out pretty shit for you and it might not get better, but hey, suck it up, kid. You’re alright.”
He trails his fingers along the ruffled head of the newborn, and the calf sighs a long exhale. Soon, he’ll carry it up to Eskel’s trailer to feed it some colostrum and curl up next to it by the space heater, pretending he’s just intent on thawing his own ass and not keeping the little thing that much warmer.
For now, morning light is spreading in rapid bursts of orange across the drylot. It catches in a white fog of breath as Vesemir grumbles low against the flank of the ailing cow. Eskel loads the shotgun with a steady press of his hands.