Tom
THE COW LETS OUT A roar. It sounds heated.
I cannot help but find a piece of myself in the sound.
How long ago did this all start? How long was the cow getting up and down for, uncomfortable and crying?
She hunches her back, and the hooves of the calf are seen.
Where is all the blood? Myself and Frances prepare ourselves.
The McCarthys cannot afford to lose a calf, it seems. Frances calls,
‘Right, men!’
My eyes widen. Is it possible to be so afraid and so unafraid at once? This is like watching the house burn down and enjoying the warmth of the flames. This is like beating somebody until they bleed and not worrying whether they clot. Alarming, adrenalising, comforting.
Next, a head, a body and long legs. No need for the men to pull at all. A calf drops from the cow. Astonishing. Partly entangled in the lavender and blue of its mother’s body, parts that I cannot name.
‘Come here, Tom.’
Bill says, approaching the calf, and shows me how to check that it is breathing, how to pull its hind legs apart and determine the sex. And then, the cow licks her own glossy innards off the new calf.
It’s only one animal looking after another.