Many of his fellow kibbutzniks thought it a bit odd that Shimmy, the veteran and gray-haired raftan, had a favorite cow. Shimmy had worked in the refet for as long as anyone could remember and had extensive knowledge of the cows in his care, their eating habits, and their milk production capabilities. But to think that of all the animals in the herd, one cow stood out as his favorite, and possibly received his special attention, was strange to say the least.
Mazal was a special cow, or at least that was what Shimmy argued in his defense. “Just look at her,” he would say, and one could not help but notice Mazal’s unique coloring. She was almost an albino with her alabaster flesh and the pink coloring around her mouth and eyes. She stood out in sharp contrast from the rest of the black and white spotted Holstein herd. Only a splash of darkened flesh thrown on one of her hind legs almost as an afterthought spoiled Mazal’s stark white appearance.
There was more than just her coloring that made Mazal special, Shimmy pointed out. Her name meant ‘luck’ and she had lived up to her namesake by becoming a very productive member of the herd. The udders of the white matron provided countless liters of pure white milk in each of the three daily milkings.
But there was something else unique about Mazal, and here is where Shimmy’s fellow kibbutzniks had to draw the line and begin questioning his sanity. Shimmy felt that if humans had personalities, then Mazal, his choice bovine, had a ‘cow-ality.’ This characteristic trait distinguished Mazal from the other members of the herd, he claimed.
“You’ve milked too many cows,” jeered the others, but Shimmy was unruffled by their reactions. They weren’t around to notice how Mazal followed him around her pen, stared knowingly as he stroked her flanks and mooed appreciatively when he attached the metal cups to her distended teats. Shimmy was positive that Mazal recognized him and responded to him, although perhaps he was the only one who could interpret the cow’s movements this way.
Shimmy would stand near the feed stalls and call Mazal’s name. The faithful white-flanked animal would saunter over, her long, powerful tail flicking carelessly from side to side, brushing away the ever-present flies. The cow’s nostrils flared up in greeting and her long, pink tongue whipped out to slap a rough, wet caress on his forearm. What an intelligent creature, he thought to himself, but there was no one else around to witness the response.
Despite his age, his occasional back pains and an often-erratic memory, Shimmy still took his turn in the weekly milking rotation and helped feed and care for the cows. Over the years, he had watched as the herd grew in size and the refet’s milk production increased. Shimmy had attended the births and deaths of many cows. He had witnessed the wondrous cycle of new calves being born, growing into heifers until they became sexually mature, being artificially inseminated and then giving birth. The heifers became cows, productive members of the herd until it was time to give birth once again. After many repetitions of this natural cycle, the cows would eventually complete their service in the refet and be thinned from the herd. Shimmy had followed the lifecycles of many cows, but he had never before encountered any like Mazal.
Shimmy’s special relationship with Mazal dated back to the night she was born. He had been called from home in the midst of a cold, winter’s storm. ‘Minerva is giving birth,’ was the message from the night guard; it was not clear how the birth was progressing. Shimmy dressed hurriedly, kissed his wife Esther on her forehead as she slept, and headed for the refet. As he struggled to pedal his bicycle against the powerful wind, he could hear the anguished moans of the expectant mother over the loud patter of the rain.
The mud in Minerva’s pen had turned into porridge-like mush and Shimmy sloshed across it, nearly losing his high rubber boots in the process. Due to the relentless downpour, his wire-rim glasses provided only a wet suggestion as to where he was going. Fortunately, Minerva stood near the feed pathway, partially protected from the rain by an extension of the barn’s roof.
“Minerva, it’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about,” he said, approaching the cow. He stroked the side of her long, black neck. Clouds of steam rose from the animal’s warm, wet flesh.
As if she recognized his voice, Minerva stopped moaning and eased her head toward Shimmy’s touch. Her large brown eyes stared ahead. She stopped shaking, momentarily relieved from the pain of her labor.
With a gentle nudge, Shimmy turned the animal around to have her face the pathway. He maneuvered her to the metalwork of the stall and finally Minerva lowered her head into the open frame. Shimmy quickly dropped the latch and the cow was secured in place.
After wiping his glasses on a damp tissue he found in his pocket, Shimmy took off his raincoat, folded up his shirtsleeves and slipped on a pair of white surgical gloves. He shivered in the cold night air as he walked around to the cow’s rear. He pushed aside the animal’s heavy, black tail and eased his hand into a partially constricted birth canal. To his relief he discovered that this would not be a breech birth. The front hooves of the baby calf were easily steered into position and they jutted outwards, appearing for the first time. Shimmy moved his hand around carefully. There were no obstructions, no reasons why this birth shouldn’t proceed easily.
But half an hour later, the rain was still pouring down and Minerva was nowhere nearer to giving birth. Every few minutes she strained her neck and jammed her head against the frames in frantic attempts to escape from the stall. Her moaning grew in volume, her pain obvious. Shimmy rubbed the cow’s flanks, realizing there was not much he could do to calm the animal.
The unborn calf was somewhat stuck in the narrow birth canal. He would need to help pull it from its mother’s body, which was something he had done many times in the past. He took hold of the animal’s two exposed hooves and yanked with all his strength. But the hooves were slippery and the calf didn’t budge.
Shimmy had come prepared with a length of black rope in his pocket; now he fastened the rope around the hooves and tied it tight. He stepped back to get a better angle, but he ended up standing directly under the edge of the roof. A strong torrent of rain drenched him, soaking his clothes and seeping into his boots as well.
He couldn’t see what he was doing as he pulled on the rope as hard as he could. But before there was any response from the cow, he lost his footing and fell backwards onto the deep, slushy mud, landing solidly and painfully on his rear end.
Minerva let out a long, lowly moan but her calf was still hidden from view. In fact, the pair of hooves appeared to have retracted into the mother cow’s womb; only the black rope Shimmy had attached to them was visible to the eye.
“Come on Minerva,” he pleaded. “Push!” He struggled to rise from the wet ground but his hands were covered with mud and he was unable to find a firm foothold on the slippery terrain. If the cow should kick backwards with her hind leg, she would strike him, as he was unable to move out of range. He should call for assistance, he thought, but first he had to get to his feet. He should have called before, but he had been confident he could handle this simple birth. But it wasn’t as simple as he had presumed.
And then an amazing thing happened. Afterward he couldn’t say exactly what came first—the sudden pause in the downpour or the quick and effortless birth.
The newborn calf seemed to pour out of its mother in a silent, powerful gushing forth of new life. Moments later, the calf was lying in a mud puddle, partially on Shimmy’s lap. The young animal snorted and struggled to take in its first breaths of air. Shimmy laughed and cried; his tears mixed with the raindrops on his face.
The rain stopped and he was finally able to stand up. He went over to the feed pathway and released the latch. Minerva backed out of her stall and turned to regard her offspring. With an inborn motherly instinct, the cow licked and cleaned her calf and nudged it to its wobbly feet.
It was only later, when Shimmy was carrying the calf to the refet’s nursery, that he noticed the newborn creature was completely white. What luck! Mazal! That would be the young calf’s name.
Read the rest of this story in The Virtual Kibbutz, available on Amazon.
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