Her name was Jesus.
It’s been a strange couple of days. Let’s all recover by singing a little Christian campfire song. It goes.
Father Abraham, had many sons;
and many sons, had Father Abraham.
Cows walking on slick, wet, manure coated concrete have a tendency to slip and bruise and strain their appendages. So when a particular young calf came up with a limp, I paid her no mind. At first. But then I saw she didn’t just have a swollen knee, she had A GIANT OPEN WOUND on the back of her leg. And, naturally, the chances of a GIANT OPEN WOUND becoming infected are gently increased when you soak it in a poultice of stagnant urine and poop.
The vet advised drugs. Who am I kidding, the vet always advises drugs. But, seeing as this one was gonna die without, I might as well. She learned me good. Now I know that giving a calf a shot is the absolute worst job on the farm. *shudder* I didn’t really believe she’d make it, so I named her Father Abraham, as a sort of good luck charm every time you’d say her name.
Fast forward three months to last Thursday. When I look back at the pastures I can see a calf off by itself, away from the herd. Sometimes they get stuck on the wrong side of the fence. It happens. Evening rolls around and I rouse myself to move the calves to the next paddock before the rains come. When I get back to the field I see the separate calf sprawled on the ground with what looks from a distance suspiciously like a calf dangling from her rear. But that’s unpossible! All my boys, uh, aren’t boys anymore. All my girls only live for their first three to five months near anything with working testicles. Which makes them a mite on the small side. So I decide that can’t be it.
But, it is. It is in fact Father Abraham lying on the ground with her fully developed and newly dead daughter stuck halfway out. But. But. But. Try as I might, I can’t argue reality with the facts. The facts clearly lose. I do the math. Nine months gestation. Father is about a year and a month old. Holy crap!
Rusty and my Aunt help me to pull the baby. And try to keep Father Abraham from falling into the creek. We fail at the creek bit. After 45 minutes trying to get her out of the creek, I give up and hope she doesn’t drown. Yesterday morning she’s up and out, but she’s suffered some nerve damage. And rightly so, for things that large simply cannot come out of things that small without breaking, well, something. So once again, Father Abraham is separate from the herd and starting a regime of shots. She’s putting into action her plan to take over Dingo’s mantle as the most unkillable animal on the farm. She’s still got a ways to go, but she appears fully up to the task.
Use the word Jesus (n.) in a sentence:
I got nettles dragging dead baby Jesus back into the woods.
Father Abraham, had many sons;
and many sons, had Father Abraham.
Cows walking on slick, wet, manure coated concrete have a tendency to slip and bruise and strain their appendages. So when a particular young calf came up with a limp, I paid her no mind. At first. But then I saw she didn’t just have a swollen knee, she had A GIANT OPEN WOUND on the back of her leg. And, naturally, the chances of a GIANT OPEN WOUND becoming infected are gently increased when you soak it in a poultice of stagnant urine and poop.
The vet advised drugs. Who am I kidding, the vet always advises drugs. But, seeing as this one was gonna die without, I might as well. She learned me good. Now I know that giving a calf a shot is the absolute worst job on the farm. *shudder* I didn’t really believe she’d make it, so I named her Father Abraham, as a sort of good luck charm every time you’d say her name.
Fast forward three months to last Thursday. When I look back at the pastures I can see a calf off by itself, away from the herd. Sometimes they get stuck on the wrong side of the fence. It happens. Evening rolls around and I rouse myself to move the calves to the next paddock before the rains come. When I get back to the field I see the separate calf sprawled on the ground with what looks from a distance suspiciously like a calf dangling from her rear. But that’s unpossible! All my boys, uh, aren’t boys anymore. All my girls only live for their first three to five months near anything with working testicles. Which makes them a mite on the small side. So I decide that can’t be it.
But, it is. It is in fact Father Abraham lying on the ground with her fully developed and newly dead daughter stuck halfway out. But. But. But. Try as I might, I can’t argue reality with the facts. The facts clearly lose. I do the math. Nine months gestation. Father is about a year and a month old. Holy crap!
Rusty and my Aunt help me to pull the baby. And try to keep Father Abraham from falling into the creek. We fail at the creek bit. After 45 minutes trying to get her out of the creek, I give up and hope she doesn’t drown. Yesterday morning she’s up and out, but she’s suffered some nerve damage. And rightly so, for things that large simply cannot come out of things that small without breaking, well, something. So once again, Father Abraham is separate from the herd and starting a regime of shots. She’s putting into action her plan to take over Dingo’s mantle as the most unkillable animal on the farm. She’s still got a ways to go, but she appears fully up to the task.
Use the word Jesus (n.) in a sentence:
I got nettles dragging dead baby Jesus back into the woods.
posted by Lord of the Barnyard at 7:45 AM
5 Comments:
I'm really confused. What happened? A male cow gave birth to a dead calf? The creek?
the sentences only make sense if you imagine me saying them. you just aren't trying hard enough to picture me, jon.
the quite female and giving birth to dead calves heifer is named Father Abraham. kinda like growing up knowing a girl named michael. or steve.
the creek is a small, rapidly flowing body of water. the one in question is Job's Run. Father Abraham fell into Job's Run after trying to failing to bring Jesus into the world alive.
I got it; Father Abraham nearly begot Jesus, but Jesus died in the birthing process?
But who impregnated Father Abraham?
Drew,
It's funny because when I hear that there are no "working" steer around to impregnate the cows and that the only able bodied male around is you, I come to a different conclusion.
yes ian, i actually named her jesus because she was mine only begotten son.
after looking up begotten in the dictionary (no, not the real one), i wonder what god actually said in whatever language he said it, cause, shit, that don't make good sense.
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