Distinctly Montana Magazine

D I S T I N C T L Y M O N T A N A M A G A Z I N E • S P R I N G 2 0 2 1 42 D ID YOU EVER HAVE ONE OF THOSE DAYS? You know, like something just comes up unex- pected and ruined the whole day? It was a spring morning in March, but someone didn't tell north-central Mon- tana; ignorant of the passing of the season, she was bitterly blizzard- ing away. Typically my morning routine is to put a cup of yesterday's coffee in the micro- wave, glance at the thermometer/ barometer, and have a look-see out the window. Unpleasantly, the instru- ments and the window agreed: blizzard. Good day to lie low. Only the angel on my shoulder told me to gulp down the coffee and go check on the cows. Tem- perature is two degrees south of zero and my first mistake of the day was not to dress for hours of inclement weather. I expected a quick all-is-well signal from the cows, and then I'd beat a hasty retreat back to the warmth of the hearth and another blessed cup of stale coffee. Not today: One of the cows was off by herself under the cottonwood trees. Never a good sign; they should have been bunched at the bale feeder complaining to one anoth- er about the state of the world. The cow's name was Winter. An ironic touch on this mis- erable spring morning. I went to the cow then, for a friendly visit, only to discover she was in a fit of bovine rage. This too was not a good sign. As a fat old man, I figure it was about even odds in a fair fight, but I refused to die without another cup of coffee, so I started to trudge back to the house when I noticed it: a wretched little bundle of white, bare- ly visible amidst the snow. It scarcely had the energy to shiver. So that's why Momma was trying to kill me. I maneuvered upside of the calf, scooped it up, stealing it from the Mom- ma. I realized at this point that while she was only mild- ly irritated with me before, now she was furious. I could not persuade her that this all for the good of her little one. Cows rarely listen to reason in my experience. When I got to the house, she had ceased all movement, and I thought I hadn't made it in time. But upon inspection, I found that her eyes, edged with frost, were still blinking, slowly. To the bathtub then. The secret is to do this slowly, warm first, the next tub-full a little warmer, and the next tub warmer yet, then almost hot. It took all the hot water the old 50-gallon water heater could muster. Upon reflection, I was probably engaged in a little passive aggression, subconsciously realizing that if I cursed enough in the process, someone in the house would realize I wasn't just taking a prolonged, multi-stage bath, but was trying to do something. And indeed, finally, my wife popped her head through the door. "Please help me, the calf will drown if her head is not held up," I said, although it was probably a little more color- fully put in the moment. OLD BROKE RANCHER BY GARY SHELTON

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