So, this is probably one of my more embarrassing memories. Not because I did anything wrong, mind you, but because no one wants to be known as a calf killer. I DIDN’T KILL THEM! I just… had really, really, awful luck.
The first one I remember was one of three calves we got. Being the very, very creative child I was, I named the three calves “Beauty,” “AndThe,” and “Beast.” I don’t remember the details at all. I just remember that I was the lucky owner of AndThe (I think it was my dad’s payback for me choosing such a horrible name) and that not long after I was given ownership, the calf died.
The next was a very sickly calf to begin with. It was sick enough that we could leave it on the back yard without a fence or anything and have no fear of it getting out. (Can a calf get out if it’s never “in”?) I felt really bad for said calf, so I started going out and talking to it and playing with it during the days. I would take books out and read with it. I bottle fed him. (That wasn’t unusual, though. We bottle fed all of our baby calves.) And slowly, the calf started regaining its strength. I named him Zeus, because I hoped such a strong name would help him get strong again. One day my dad approached my mom with the idea of giving him to me, since I had put so much effort into nursing him back to health. That night, they told me he was mine. The next morning he died.
Last was while my sister, Jalin, was on her mission. My dad got two calves and put them in our live nativity. He told me that one was mine and one was Jalin’s, though I got to take care of both. I spent the next several weeks agonizing over which one I wanted. I watched to see which one was stronger. Which one was cuter. (Well, as much as a calf can be cute.) Which one was nicer. Finally I picked. Jalin’s calf got named Fred (as that was one of her nicknames) and mine was named George. That night (or maybe the next?) it got really cold. Really, really cold. Like, to the point that one of George’s hooves froze clear through. Like, bad enough that the hoof eventually fell off. And even though they ate out of the same trough, drank the same water, had the same amount of sun and space, Fred very clearly surpassed George in health and strength. While he kept getting bigger and stronger, George got smaller and weaker until one day he finally died.
(Yes, it's creepy that the last three paragraphs have ended with the word "died." I told you this is an embarrassing memory.)
The fact that this kept happening was a bit unsettling. Wouldn’t you be a bit weirded out? So, to prevent this from happening, my dad stopped giving me calves. Instead I would just feed all of the calves, then one day Dad would sell them, and just give me the money for one of them, telling me it had been mine.
I always wondered what happened to those calves. I secretly wanted to call up the people who bought them a day or two later just to see if they were still alive, or if maybe my curse was broken once ownership passed to someone else.
This unfortunate trait carried on into my college years with fish, but since this isn’t a college-life reminiscing blog, you’ll just have to live without said story. Hah! In good news, the curse doesn’t seem to apply to children. I’ve made it nigh a year and Kessa is still happy and strong and healthy. [knock on wood.]
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