Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Baby Cow. Also known as a "Calf"

FYI: I'm catching up on old blogs, and by "old" I mean "OLD".

At church one day early this spring, my brother-in-law, Cortney, informed me that there was a calf in his truck.

And by "calf" I mean, yes, "calf". In his truck. Where calves belong, right?

What's that?

Oh, you don't put calves in your truck?

Huh. Weird.

He'd gone out early that morning to check on the heifers (Mamma cows having their first babies). He came across a little dude who's mamma wasn't quite getting the hang of feeding, or maybe the little dude wasn't quite getting the hang of eating.

Anyway, it was very cold that day and if those baby cows don't get straight to eatin' they don't stand a very good chance in the cold weather. So Cortney loaded him up in the pick-up to warm up, realized it would take awhile, and headed into town.

After church he brought him to our house to warm up and dry off.

The question I have is, "What more could you ask for?" A baby cow in your living room on Sunday after church.

It was obvious that his name should be Sunday.

He hadn't eaten yet, but his sucking instincts were very much intact! Funny how that works...

He was pretty curious. As all good animals should be. Wait, what...?

But he was getting so sleepy...

So, so sleepy

Aaaannnddd, He's back!!

He and Miss Kaity-Bear weren't too sure about eachother.

"Are you my mother?"

"No I am not your mother, I am a dog."

 Anyone else read that book? No? Okay...

So about the time he started bawling around for some milk, Cortney took him back out to the ranch. I asked to feed him and keep him for a pet. Casey wouldn't let me feed him because he said his mom had better milk than our pasturized cow's milk. Go figure.

He also informed me that steers do not make good pets.

One day, I hope to prove him wrong.

See ya, Sunday!!


  1. I have many fond memories of helping my Grandpa bottle feed "Baby"

  2. It's a good thing he didn't let you feed him. It starts all cute and fun then one day they ship them off and your expected to eat a burger named Sunday. Always ends in tears (words of experience from the little girl with a chicken name Feathers)