Deep in slumber, I dreamed last night that one of our veterinarians came to 10-year-old me, asking a favor.
“My sister asked me to care for her barn filled with calves, who she loves like pets,” Dr. Jerry Mast said. “Your dad told me to see if you will be in charge of them while she is away.”
As I took charge in that shape-shifting way of dreams, the entire episode was filled with bizarre challenges. Mice, horrifyingly, climbed out of old Calf-Lac bags, calves refused to drink from the buckets I offered, knocking me from one pen to the next. I went in search of solutions.
As the years tick right on by, for some reason I remain enamored by my earliest connection to Holstein calves. I was quite young, maybe 7 or 8, when Dad evidently saw my combined interest and pride in caring for newly-born calves, and he put me in charge of their care. He likely over-promoted my perception of this; he surely continued to double-check my work. But his confidence in my abilities helped my own confidence to grow.
Emblazoned on my memory is the sensation of a calf head-butting against its first offer of warm colostrum in a bucket. That colostrum, as valuable to it as pure gold to a king, was not to be wasted. I knew to get the calf to grab ahold of my fingers with that uniquely powerful, sandpapery tongue, then slowly offer it the colostrum from the bucket.
Some caught on quickly, while others refused to make the connection without a bruising fight. I was knocked on my rear many times, but nearly always managed to protect the bucket from spilling. I took great pride in protecting that bucket’s contents.
Being a farm kid teaches many lessons. While living it, I had no way of knowing its value. I was learning perseverance and determination, while going eight rounds in a calf pen with a young beast who nearly matched me pound for pound.
I know it now, dreams often reminding me. Those long-ago lessons learned in a calf pen have served me well throughout a lifetime.
