01/10/2026
Every good farmer knows what it means when there’s an eartag on a set of keys.
Because while every single calf matters, every now and then there is one of the special ones. The very few that earn a place you don’t give lightly.
Tonight has broken Beth’s heart.
For four months this calf was hers. Not just something she cared for, but something she loved. He had a rough start and some big problems, and from day one Beth poured everything into him, time, patience, knowledge, and hope. She noticed every change, every small improvement, and every wobble.
Over the last couple of months he’d been doing so well that she allowed herself to believe he was going to make it, and to be fair, he had been improving very well. She had plans for him, spring grass, fresh air, out with the girls cows, and the hope that time and Dr. green (grass) would ease the lung damage left behind from being such a poorly young calf, as can often happen.
She let herself believe. And that’s the risk.
Because calf rearing cannot be done properly if you don’t truly care. You can’t do this job well without investing emotionally, without loving the calves in your care and wanting them to thrive. And when you do that, when you commit fully, you also accept that sometimes it will hurt. That sometimes, despite doing everything right, the plan doesn’t work out.
In just 24 hours, he went downhill so fast it was frightening. The kind of change that leaves you knowing what the right decision is, even when it’s the one you wanted the least. We couldn’t let him struggle on or risk him dying alone in the night and in pain. Our vet came out on her day off, and Beth came in on hers to be with him. He had his last scratches, the ones he always leaned into, and he went to sleep calmly, safely, and with dignity.
Beth is heartbroken, as any good calf rearer would be. The day you stop truly caring, is the day you should stop working with animals.
There’s an empty pen tonight. In the morning, he won’t be there waiting for her. No greeting. No more scratches. No more carefully prepared “special feed”, the one that only Beth could ever get just right, and no one else was trusted to make.
This is the side of farming people rarely see. Livestock aren’t numbers to farmers. They’re individuals we fight for every single day. We plan, adapt, spend time, money and emotional energy doing everything we can to give them the best chance. And when it doesn’t work, when despite all of that an animal is lost, we feel it just as deeply as anyone else, if not more, because we were there through every step of their journey.
So his eartag is on Beth’s keys now. In seven years, only four calves have ever made it there.
It doesn’t mean the others don’t matter, they all do. But some calves ask more of you. They take more care, more hope, more heart. And when they go, they leave a space bigger than an empty pen.
Rest easy, little lad. You were loved, fought for, and you will always be one of Beth’s special ones.