There is one thing that is just about as sure as death and taxes.

Let the grass start greening up; let the air get that fresh, spring smell to it, yea, even though there may be snow yet upon the ground, this one thing shall come to pass.

For just as sure as you have all those things, then just as surely, this question will be asked of the sweet daughter, if you have one in your house.

“Can I have a bottle calf?”

If this question gets asked as early in the year at your house as it does at mine, then it can be successfully parried for a couple of months as you extol forth in humid sobriety the dangers of very young calves taken away from their mothers in such cold and unfavorable, muddy conditions and expect them to survive.

But the day comes when you can parry no longer, and the continual questioning of the daughter cannot be muted.

Rather, those questions take on the form of three questions asked by the pudgy man in the presence of his sweet daughter and good wife. 

They go something like this—

Me, “If we get this calf that you want to get, who is going to feed it?”

Daughter, “Oh I will.  I’ll feed it every day.  You won’t ever have to help me like you used to when I was a little girl. . . well, maybe you could help me mix the milk once in a while, but otherwise you won’t have to worry at all about it.”

Me, “Who is going to pay for the milk replacer and the feed later on?”

Daughter, “Oh I will.  I’ve been saving and I’ll pay for all the feed . . . well, maybe if we keep the calf for a while, then I might have to get a short-term loan from you, but I’ll pay it back just as soon as we sell the calf.”

Me, “So how can I know you will make good on your answers?  Every other calf you have had usually ends up being my calf by the end, because I end up feeding it while it is still on the bottle, and I end up paying for the feed all the way through except maybe for the first couple of bags of milk replacer?”

Daughter, “No this one will be different.  I know it might have been that way on the other calves, but I’ll take care of and pay for this one all the way.  Trust me.”

And, since all questions were answered in good faith, as they are every year, it remains for the pudgy man to get himself involved in this project.

That day, some years ago now, dawned upon us, and as a considerate father, I made my way over to the sale barn with the intention of coming home with the perfect bottle calf, no matter the cost.

Cost doesn’t matter when it comes to daughters, you see.  At least that’s what I’ve been given to understand by the majority female sector of this house.

If I may, I’ll take the liberty to pat myself on the back as to my choice of purchase that day.  She was as cute as a button, (the calf that is, but the daughter could be included also) cost a small fortune, (the calf that is, but the daughter could be included also) and was as hyper as your typical teenager after several cans of Red Bull energy drink. (the calf that is, but the daughter could be included also)

The next stage in this oft repeated process, for those who haven’t had a bottle calf, is to acquaint it with the bottle and get it to take it.

What this means, is the ladies gather on the outside of the enclosure that the calf is looking warily upon us from.  It also means that they have thoughtfully and considerately mixed a bottle of milk and thrust it eagerly in the direction of the pudgy man, as though it were his duty to take the next step.

So, taking the next step, for him, means literally taking the next step, straight into battle.  Cheers erupt from the bleacher section containing it’s two occupants as he plants one courageous foot in front of the other towards his quarry.

The foe in front of him eyes him and in an instant flash is gone to the other side of the pen.  Cheers began to fade and soon suggestions are offered as to what the best way to approach may be.

It always goes the same way at this point.  Tucking the bottle under his arm, the man goes for the throat.  (Of the calf that is) In a fell swoop, tackle/dive/ungraceful fall, he gets his right arm around the head, right behind the ears and in front of the shoulders and gives his mightiest choke hold. 

The bottle gets dropped and starts drooling its contents out on the ground.

The calf, which weighs in at barely 110 pounds, begins to drag the man attached to its neck around in a most unceremonious way.  Even though the man could be twice its weight if he had all his winter clothes and shoes on and has lots of stuff in his pockets. 

It becomes a strung-out affair.  The pudgy man, strung out behind and bouncing along, and the calf, strung out in fear and survival mode, eyes bulging, and mouth wide as it emits cries for help, first to its newly lost Mama, and then when that fails, to the females who are now wringing their hands in sympathy for, uh, I think, the calf. 

The females rescue the bottle, and the man pries the calf’s mouth open and inserts the nipple, squeezing hard on the bottle to get some milk to wet the back of the calf’s throat.  And if all goes well, the calf latches on, closes its eyes, and drinks its fill right then and there.  If all doesn’t go well . . .  but we won’t go there.

*****

Somehow, I got lost in the details that weren’t really related to what I started out on.

This calf whom we/I were raising and had since been on our place three weeks or so, put on a show that we hadn’t seen coming.

My friend Trav called bright and early one Sunday morning and asked if we happened to be missing our bottle calf. 

I torqued out to the pen, and sure enough, I didn’t see her anywhere.  (It was still a bit dark, just sayin’)

It seemed strange that our calf would be a good four miles from home where Travis was looking at it, but I’ve seen those calves go crazy for their Mama’s.  They’ll do just about anything.

I hitched up quickly to our trailer and made it over to where he and his son Logan were gearing up to get that calf.  It had just rained, and the field it was in had 2 inches of soupy, splashy mud. 

What I saw next, would make your normal rodeo fans pale.

There was no way a horse could make it in that slop, so Logan sat on the front of the four-wheeler, rope in hand, as Travis shifted into 4 wheel drive.  

They took off in a wild, all over the place scramble for that calf.  How Logan kept his seat glued to that flat surface he was on I’ll never know.  The four-wheeler was doing a wild up and down and back and forth because of all the mud and such. The calf saw it, lit a rag and tore off. 

No matter.

Travis stayed stuck to its tail, and I saw Logan began to twirl his rope in the most easy, unconcerned manner, one second being tossed to the right as a turn was executed to the left, and the next instant in the opposite direction.  I saw the rope snake out, land on the calf’s back, but just short of its head.  

Another throw, and he had it. 

They took that calf in their arms and carried it back on the four-wheeler to where I stood waiting.  We loaded it up and I got myself on home, hopefully in time for church.

I backed up to the pen, got out to unload this venturesome calf of ours, er, rather the sweet daughter’s, and locked eyes with our calf looking calmly back at me from her pen. 

She seemed to say, “And just when will I have my bottle?”

*****

I guess in my haste, I missed seeing her in the dark corner of the little hut she was in at the back of her pen.  Knowing the pretentious ways of little calves though, particularly female ones, she may have done hid there on purpose, sensing her chance to get one over me. 

The owner of the other calf, which lived only a quarter of a mile from where it was lassoed and where the calf had escaped from, came by later that day after we called him, and picked up his errant little one.