Chapter one – a new resident arrives

Every morning that we walk down to the paddock and see our beautiful Lana waiting our call is a precious, cherished one. As soon as she hears our footfalls her large, unsteady head lifts slowly in anticipation and curiosity, no doubt her tummy rumbles in recognition that feed time is imminent. We call out to her and her unseeing eye sockets search for us trying to get a fix on our location, her ears twitching gently like mini radars. Lana is a jewel, a precious token and inspiration to us and we feel blessed for every moment that she shares with us. She may not be the most perfect looking Hereford cow with one ear drooping, her head lop-sided and her mouth a jumble of teeth and gaps where teeth had been, some of those remaining teeth perfectly placed, others jutting forward clumsily with little value other than propping up her upper lip. Her big, fabulous wet nose, even at her tender age, has the marks and scars of a hundred battles with unseen, resolute posts and walls and other treacherous obstacles. But she is gorgeous, inside and out. We love her dearly and she epitomises everything that we believe in and wish for Pen Y Bryn. She is the inspiration, she is the hope and she is the heart.

Lana was born without eyes, without a tail and with a myriad of other issues resultant from deficiencies whilst in her mother’s womb. She wasn’t the first calf to be born in a similar state in the farmer’s herd, the previous year we would learn, two other calves had been born eyeless and deficient. These had been nurtured away from the herd in the hope that their disabilities could be dealt with and upon maturity they could rejoin their peers. Unfortunately, inevitably, when the time was adjudged right for the repatriation the herd turned against the young vulnerables and destroyed them. Thus, a year on with another calf afflicted, the farmer and his vet felt there were just two options, one to end the young cow’s life early with no optimism or opportunity, or to find a home that would give her a chance.

When we received the call to see if we would be prepared to take on a two week old female Hereford calf with significant life limitations, there wasn’t a decision to be made ….. as often (but not always) is the case. We could at least offer hope for this young being that would be wrested from the warmth, love and security of its nurturing mother and we could most certainly offer it love and attention. The semantics following of how we would integrate her with the rest of our residents we could solve when the time came, if the time came, the moment was one of urgency and all we needed to do was give the poor creature a chance.

Unnamed but numbered with fresh, oversized ear tags the pathetic soul arrived the following day, timid, terrified and probably in shock from the ordeal of being removed from its mother, thrust into a small trailer, having its ears pierced and driven an hour to us. As the farmer carried it from the trailer to our small enclosure that we had prepared in our garage of four, six foot sheep hurdles and deposited her gently on the straw, both mine and Kelly’s hearts ached. She would be the first calf that we had taken care of at the sanctuary, her needs were clearly large and we both felt some pressure by the responsibility of taking her on. The fact that she had no other option didn’t lessen the responsibility, it just made our situation undebatable.

As the farmer drove back out of our drive, clearly relieved that he had relinquished any financial and moral obligation to the young bovine, Kelly and I looked at each other silently. Tiny tears formed in each of our eyes for a moment, then as always we took hold of the situation and discussed what we were going to do.

Our hopes weren’t high. We really felt in that moment that, as our hearts swelled in love, we would lose her in the next day or so and that our pain would make us question our commitment. So, we resolved to take it an hour at a time, day at a time and possibly, week at a time. Focus on the moment and not fear the future, just resolve to accept whatever fate had in store.

Instinctively, as the feeble animal stood shaking and frightened in the middle of the pen, we both climbed over the hurdles and got in with her, talking calmly, quietly and soothingly to try and offer some semblance of comfort and maternal love that she was now bereft of. She wasn’t interested. In her world of darkness all she could know was that she didn’t recognise any sound or smell and any familiarity or comfort that she had experienced in her too short days were now non-existent.

We weren’t wholly unprepared, in the little time that we had been given we had prepared the stall for the calf and had bought some milk powder to nurture her. If we couldn’t offer her immediate comfort, then perhaps a warm bottle of milk would do the trick.

Kelly is always far better at these things than I, so she went and prepared a bottle whilst I sat and cuddled and cooed at the calf.

In our minds I know we both imagined that, even sightless, the invitation of a warm teat smelling of milk, would be hard to resist and that she would latch onto it like any hungry baby, eager to feel the comfort of suckling. How naïve we were. No amount of prodding, thrusting, flapping the soft teat on her lips or squirting milk around her muzzle would entice the calf to latch on. She was uninterested and illustrating an obstinacy that we would in time become very familiar with. For an hour, possibly two, we each tried to get her to feed, but there was no point, the first battle had been marked up in her favour. We climbed out of the stall and decided to allow her some space and time to herself, but not wanting to leave her in a dark silence that would have been so unfamiliar to her having had the braying of her mother and other cattle in the stalls around her, we took the simple of action of bringing in a small portable radio, placing it a little above her on a shelf out of her reach and tuned it into Classic FM. As the rippling, arpeggiated melody of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata gently cascaded from the tiny speaker, the calf made a quite evident movement of interest and curiosity. Her head raised towards the falling notes and we clearly witnessed her calm down somewhat. We crept out of the garage and closed the door quietly behind us, leaving the lights switched on – clearly not for her benefit, but for our own peace of mind.

We didn’t leave her long. About the length of time it took to boil the kettle, make a cup of tea and slurp it down. First Kelly edged to the front door conspicuously trying to be casual and failing completely.

‘Just thought I would check the music wasn’t too loud’ she muttered.

I followed closely behind. We eased the garage door open and peered in, each of our heads getting in the way of the other. The calf was still standing, her head tilted upwards to the music, her body language relaxing.

‘I’ll try her with some more milk’ Kelly whispered.

‘No, give her some time, let her just get used to her new surroundings’ I countered and reluctantly Kelly edged back out of the doorway as I pulled on her gilet.

We must have checked on the calf a dozen times in the next three hours and repeatedly tried to cajole her into supping on the bottle. But it was in vain. With the early evening darkness of  October upon us and the chill in the air rising, we felt a sense of uselessness.

‘I’m going to sleep in with her tonight’ Kelly declared quietly, determinedly and in a tone that, through bitter experience I have learnt not to disagree with.

‘But it’s Sunday, you’re at work tomorrow, you can’t sleep in here, we’ll do shifts’. I replied.

‘No, I was the one that said yes in the first place, tonight she needs a mum by her. I’ll stay’.

 Kelly and I argue a lot, we both have our own minds and both hate being told what to do, especially when we’re told to do something that we were just about to do anyway. The arguments rarely result in a victor or a compromise, there are often insults, obscenities and accusations thrown around and a lot of bad feeling manifests itself. Usually there results a dark cloud of silent moodiness that hovers around us until gradually we both begin to reflect, then quietly, without admittance or giving ground we accept that the other had a point and one of us clears the air (normally me of course because I am far more conceding in these matters) by gently nudging the other or offering a quiet peck on the cheek. On this occasion there was no need for me to even contemplate entering an argument that I had no way of winning. Whatever objections I may raise I knew that Kelly would still be wrapping herself in a duvet and nestling down with the calf on her straw in the cold garage that night. All I had to do was not make too much of a fuss.

I think the biggest fear we had that first night was that we wouldn’t even get the calf through the hours of darkness. She was frail, she was vulnerable and we had no idea what other ailments were manifesting themselves in her small frame. Neither of us slept well, but I slept considerably better than Kelly did. When she nudged open the bedroom door at about six a.m. her eyes were bloodshot and bleary, her hair bedraggled and she looked far from her usual immaculate self. But she was clearly smiling in the darkness, something I could ascertain even though my eyes were only half open.

‘She drank’ Kelly whispered in an excited but knackered tone, ‘not a lot, but she drank’.

‘How is she?’ I replied.

‘Quiet, sad, lonely I think. But she drank and she likes the music’. Kelly answered.

It was a start. It was the start. We had gotten her through the first few hours, or actually Kelly had gotten her through those first few hours. Kelly had given her the warmth and instinctive love of a mother, a love that I have seen her extend before and since to a multitude of weak, young and ailing animals, many of which were too ill or frail to ultimately survive. Kelly is a strong and forceful person who can be difficult to receive affection from and who will certainly not put up with fools (or fuckwits as she would call them) lightly. However, when it comes to animals she is as sensitive and emotionally vulnerable as each of her wards. I have seen her lovingly nurse and snuggle rabbits, guinea pigs, chickens, geese, pigeons, cats, dogs, ducks, budgies and the ilk back to health or in their last moments. Her heart has broken a thousand times for the tiniest of creatures, some even which she had claimed to despise – when I first declared that I wanted rescue chickens she was adamant that she hated them and would never get involved with their care or feeding. Her resolve and attitude lasted no more than a blink of an eye after we got our first batch.

I have seen Kelly stay up all night giving comfort to the most vulnerable soul, knowing full well that it had no chance of survival, but adamant that it wouldn’t pass without love and warmth surrounding it. Kelly is intensely sensitive and affectionate to most (not all – spiders get squished every time which is a constant source of an argument between us) animals, to humans not so much unless you catch her on a good day, but to animals she is Franciscan.

It was the first night. One night. A moment passed and survived. Each and every subsequent moment a challenge to be met fearlessly.