Little Joe
Authors: Sandra Neil Wallace
To my father, John Neil,
who comes from a farming family,
and my oma, Anna Koenig, who lost her farm to war.
Like Eli’s grandpa, she encouraged me to roam
.
Chapter One - A Special Delivery
Chapter Twelve - In the Show Ring
Chapter Thirteen - Poison Weeds!
Chapter Fourteen - No Trespassing
Chapter Fifteen - Broken Bones
A Special Delivery
Little Joe came out on Christmas Eve, when he wasn’t supposed to. Larger than most and trembly, with only Eli there and Grandpa. Pa had gone to fetch the in-laws and some ice cream to go with the pies.
“Fancy’s been like this for over an hour, son,” Grandpa said to Eli, stroking Fancy’s matted hair. “She’s gonna need some help with this one.”
A nervous hen fluttered a wing, then clucked. One of the barn cats purred. But their movements were blurred by the darkness. All Eli could see in the barn was what stirred beneath the pen’s only lightbulb: two little black hooves no bigger than Eli’s wrists, peeking out of Fancy.
Then a head, black and furry and shiny, with two slits for eyes shut tight.
Eli stared at the hooves just dangling there. He’d seen calves being born before—even twins last year, back when he was eight. But they were little Holstein heifers, not Angus like this one. And they’d come out right away, splashing slick as a waterslide onto the bedding and bawling for their mama.
“Push against Fancy’s side,” Grandpa told Eli. Grandpa took hold of the tiny hooves and pulled while Eli pushed against Fancy. But the calf stayed put.
“Looks like you’re gonna have to pull on a hoof with me, Eli, just like you would a wishbone. You pull thataway and I’ll pull this way,” Grandpa said. “Now make a wish and when I holler three …
pull!
On a count o’ three. One …”
Eli clenched his teeth, grabbed hold of a hoof and shut his eyes tight as he could.
“Two …”
Then he wished for the calf to come out right.
“Three!”
Eli yanked on the hoof. Grandpa tugged hard on the other. Then Eli heard a plop and the rustling of straw.
“You can open your eyes now,” Grandpa said, grinning. “It’s a fine bull calf, Eli.”
Lying on the straw bed was a shimmering black clump
of a calf. Perfectly shaped and nearly as long as Eli, he’d come out right and big.
“Your pa says this one’s yours,” Grandpa said.
“Pa said so?” Eli looked down at the newborn and fought back a smile. His own calf! And Pa was giving it to him.
Grandpa stopped smiling. He got down on his knees again and stroked the bull calf’s side. Its eyes were closed and it wasn’t moving. Not like the heifers. The heifers moved, Eli remembered. The heifers tried to get up, raise their heads. The heifers tried to do something—anything—to get a feel for the outside. This one did nothing.
“He’s not breathing.” Grandpa knelt closer and felt the calf’s nose. “It’s too late to get Doc Rutledge. Breathe into this nostril while I close off the other.
Now
, Eli!”
Eli grabbed hold of the bull calf’s head, took a deep breath and blew into the shiny gray nostril, hard as he could. The nostril was slippery cold, and Eli was sure it hadn’t moved.
“Again!” Grandpa shouted as he felt for the calf’s heart. “And through the mouth, too.”
Eli drew in another deep breath and forced it into the gray nostril. This time he pressed his lips against the calf’s mouth, too, blowing through a tiny row of baby teeth.
“Keep going!” Grandpa yelled.
Lying on the straw bed was a shimmering black clump of a calf. Perfectly shaped and nearly as long as Eli, he’d come out right and big
.
There was pounding in Eli’s ears now. He was sweating and sure his face must be red as a summer radish. His hands had gone all shaky, too. Eli worried they might not be any good to the calf.
His calf
. Still, he took another gulp of air and fed it into the bull calf’s nose.
“He’s got a heartbeat,” Grandpa said.
The bull calf coughed and sputtered, then spit up a big wad of goo into Eli’s face.
Eli didn’t know what to do, so he swiped at the goo and just sat there, leaning against the wall of the pen until the coolness came back to him. Grandpa always said those stone walls held history and the stories of all the Stegner seasons. That they soaked up the cold and kept it there, year-round, soothing you in summer and forcing you awake in winter to get your chores done. Eli couldn’t imagine going to sleep now. He shivered as the stone’s cold bore through his chore coat.
“Feel the heart, Eli.” Grandpa took Eli’s hand and placed it under the calf’s left foreleg, below the rib cage. The heart was warm and restless. It kept fluttering, just like the monarch butterfly Eli’d cupped in his hands last spring.
“It’s beating because of you, Eli. You got it goin’!” Grandpa smiled and looked at Fancy. “Come, Mama,” he called. Fancy got up, turned around and smelled her calf for the first time.
“Better wipe that slobber off your face unless you want Fancy to give you a lickin’, too,” Grandpa teased. “Now go get her some water, son.”
Eli grabbed the water bucket and ran to the hose fast as he could. He thought about taking that hose and hauling it right over to Fancy, but decided to stand and wait for the bucket to fill. He’d forgotten it was snowing. That it was Christmas Eve. Eli pawed at the snowdrift that had found its way into the barn below the old stanchions. He ran a frozen clump of it down the side of his face where the goo was. Then he carted the bucket over to the calving pen, trying not to spill too much.
When Eli got back, Grandpa was putting a piece of straw up the little calf’s nose to make it sneeze. It sneezed.
Eli laughed. “My bull calf sneezed!”
“Just checking his breathing, son.”
It sneezed again.
“Gave us quite a scare, didn’t he?” Grandpa slid his hands across the bull calf’s loin, past the rump, then stopped to massage its hindquarters. “You know, I was bigger than most, too, when I was born, oh, about a hundred years ago.”
“Grandpa, you’re not
that
old,” Eli said.
“What you gonna name him, son? He’s sired by Apple Wood, and if he’s anything like his daddy, he’ll be worth
keeping as a bull. But you can call him anything you want to, on account he’s all yours.”
The bull calf raised its head, sniffed at the pen and mooed.
“Pretty soon you’ll know his moo, Eli, and he’ll get familiar with your voice—how you smell. Now don’t go washing that chore coat. The more it’s got the scent of him on it, the better. Once a calf trusts you, it can be gentled.”
The barn seemed different to Eli now that it had new life in it. There was sneezing and bleating and the rush of warm milk. All because there was something to fuss over.
“Merry Christmas, everybody!” Hannah burst into the barn out of breath, with her puffy coat undone and her jeans halfway tucked into pink cowboy boots. “Ma said if you’re in here this long, there must be … Ah!” Hannah gasped. “There
is
a calf being born!” She rushed right up to the little bull calf. “Oh, look how cute it is.”
“Careful, Hannah,” Grandpa warned. “This here’s Eli’s bull calf, and your big brother’s just about to name him.”
“Can I touch him, Eli?” Hannah pleaded. “Oh, can I? Please, please!”
Eli nodded.
“How ’bout Kris Kringle!” Hannah gushed, rubbing the curly knot of hair on the bull calf’s forehead. “Since it’s
Christmas Eve and all. Santa Claus seems too … babyish. But Kris Kringle, that sounds royal.”