At Least Once a Problem Solved

Sometimes I feel like a shadow
searching for its body but today
I rubbed out the copy and found the
original man. This young heifer,
she couldn’t birth her calf, and the
straining, struggle, bawling had
gone on long enough, she called for help.
The veterinarian wasn’t in, the girl said,
but she would leave a message. And let
the heifer die? I washed my hands,
soaped my arm and went in. As if he
had rejected the outside the calf lay
wrong way to. ‘‘Breach presentation,’’
the textbooks say. I couldn’t budge him,
and the suction sapped my strength until
the arm seemed useless. Have you ever
thrust an arm into a cow’s vagina to
turn the foetus? You know the problem.
But I rode to the rescue on desperate
measures. Clipped the hair on her right side,
honed the edge of a butcher knife, slit
her side and pulled out the calf. A little
bull, stood on quivering feet. I sewed her
up with a darning needle, the calf sucked,
she licked it, chewed her cud. Now I want
to wear a big grin and sit in the front yard
under a flashing sign that says, ‘‘Here a man
once rose to the occasion.’’