The story of the calf that counted
BY Penny Porter
6th Feb 2024 Life
9 min read
The story of a calf called Buttercup and her special relationship with a girl named Becky. From the July 1994 edition in the Reader's Digest magazine archives
Our daughter loved numbers. But
raising Buttercup taught her what really added up.
Bill and Becky
“Where were you?" Bill hung
up his weathered Stetson and fixed his eyes on our 12-year-old daughter. Becky,
deep in her algebra homework at the kitchen table, didn't look up. "I
couldn't come out and help, Daddy," she said. "I get extra marks if I
do these equations."
Her father ruffled her honey-blonde hair. "Well,
we could have used an extra hand on the gate of the cattle pen. Then those cows
wouldn't have broken through the fence."
His tone was gentle, but I knew
he was concerned about Becky. She was too much like he used to be. Bill had been
a maths whiz himself, earning an engineering degree and planning a lucrative
career. But his time as a POW during the Second World War changed his thinking.
Back home, he chose to be an
Arizona rancher. He could spend more time doing what he now considered important—drawing
closer to his family and the land. In particular, Bill enjoyed animals and wanted
his children to share that experience. Two of our older children, Bud and
Scott, exhibited heifers at county fairs. Our youngest, Jaymee, could hardly
wait to do the same.
Bill wanted his children to help him on their farm, but his daughter Becky was more concerned with mathematics (credit: cottonbro studio (Pexels))
But Becky loved numbers. Bill,
however, refused to give up. "Wouldn't you like to show your very own
yearling heifer next year?", he asked Becky one day. "You could win a
blue ribbon!"
"I'm too busy, Daddy. I've got tests coming up. And I
help other children in maths", Becky said. "Come on, sweetheart. I'll give you
the calf out of my best cow", Bill told her. "When it's ready to show, you can sell it and keep
the money for university."
Reluctantly Becky followed Bill
into his office. He sifted through pedigree notebooks that listed dozens of
names, each identified with eight-digit numbers. "Here she is! Tag 333.
Look at the bloodlines! Her baby will be a great calf!"
Becky looked, and
a smile brightened her face. I understood; it was all those numbers beneath Tag
333's name and under the ancestors. "OK. I'll give it a try".
Preparing for a calf
In the following weeks, she
started a journal of projected expenses—vaccinations, registration fees, vet
bills, grain and hay." She's finally getting interested in cattle,"
Bill told me happily. I wasn't so sure. For Becky, the calf seemed more like a
mathematical challenge than a living animal that would require care and love.
"For Becky, the calf seemed more like a mathematical challenge than a living animal that needed care"
Something else gnawed at me.
Unlike most Herefords, Tag 333 was a crazy thing with wild eyes, flaring
nostrils and horns like grappling hooks. She had a habit of soaring over fences
into our neighbours' pastures then bolting off into the distance. "Aren't
you worried that cow might reject her baby?" I asked Bill. “Her mother had
six calves and no problems”, he replied. "It's all in the genes."
One February night, as we climbed
into bed, Bill said, "Tag 333's due to calve any time now." "Well,
let's hope she doesn't have it tonight," I replied. "It's supposed to
get really cold."
Saving Buttercup
In the morning, Bill called, "Come and see this!
I'll bet it's well below freezing out there." Winter had transformed our
pastures into a wonderland. Icicles clung like festive lights along the
irrigation pipes. Cattle huddled in bunches, steam rising from their broad
backs. Calves shivered at their mothers' sides. Calves! My heart leapt.
"What about Tag 333?" I
asked Bill. He frowned. "We can't find her. Scott's checking the other
pastures." I lit the wood stove and woke Becky and Jaymee for school. They
were eating breakfast when 22-year-old Scott burst in. "Can't locate that
cow, Dad. But I saw her calf about two miles down. It's in bad shape. You'd
better bring the pick-up."
Piling into the vehicle, we drove
to where the newborn lay glazed in ice. Her eyelids were sealed by glittering
frost. Scott began knocking away the icicles imprisoning the rigid body.
"It's a little heifer," he murmured. "Is she dead?" Becky
asked. Scott pressed his fingers against the calf's chest. "No heartbeat,
Dad." "Let's get her to the barn—fast!"
Buttercup was born during a freezing, wintry night (credit: Pixabay (Pexels))
Bill and Scott gripped her legs
and prised the calf from the earth, swinging her into the pick-up. She struck the
metal base like a slab of granite. "She's frozen solid!" gasped
Scott, jumping in beside the calf.
To get her circulation going, he began rubbing
her with a sack. "Oh no!" Becky cried. Ahead she saw brown and white
chunks of fur where the calf had been. "We left pieces of her ears behind!"
she wailed.
In the straw-filled stall, the
calf lay still. Bill thumped and squeezed the calf as Scott searched for a vein
to insert an intravenous drip. Becky watched. "What can I do, Daddy?"
"Get some blankets to warm her." Scott gave a great shout:
"We've got a heartbeat!"
I hurried to the house for
colostrum—"first milk" that we keep for emergencies. A few drops in
the calf's mouth and the tiny jaws moved slightly. Soon the tug on the bottle
told me she was suckling. "You'll be all right," Becky whispered as
she stroked the calf's cold face. But Bill, Scott and I knew the dangers, even
if the calf survived: pneumonia, kidney damage, arthritis.
Becky names Buttercup
"Becky, if she doesn't make
it," Bill said, "I'll help you pick another calf." "I don't
want another one, Daddy. Besides, I've already named her—Buttercup." The
unexpected emotion in Becky's voice startled us.
The calf was asleep. Scott hung
the drip from a rafter. "Can I stay with her?" Becky asked. "She
might wriggle out from the covers." When I checked later, Becky and
Buttercup were both under the blankets.
After lunch, Scott removed the
drip.
The calf was shivering violently now,
and Becky gave her a bottle. At the 4pm feed, the calf's eyes were
bright with anticipation. "Look!"
Becky said. "She knows me!"
"When I checked, Becky and Buttercup were both asleep under the blankets"
Eager to feed, the little creature
struggled to stand, but her legs were
still tucked beneath her. All she could
do was flop around. Then she'd look
at Becky and bawl.
The next morning, I found the
calf buttoned into one of Bill's old
sweaters—by Becky,
I quickly realised. "How did you get her legs
through
those sleeves?" I asked.
"She let me straighten them, and
after a while they'll stay straight,
Mama. I know they will."
But straw
and blankets were tossed everywhere—evidence of the calf's all-night
battle to stand.
“Please”,
I prayed,
“don't
let my daughter get too attached”.
Buttercup learns to walk
We were leaving for the school
bus when Bill spoke softly to Scott.
"We'll take care of that calf." Becky
knew what that meant. But as I drove
her to the bus stop, she said, "Daddy
will think of something."
When I got home, Bill and Scott
were heading towards the barn. I
turned up the radio to drown out the
crack of the rifle. After an hour I
went to check. "Steady, girl," I heard
Bill say. I looked into the stall. The
calf's legs were wrapped in cotton
batting and splints made from plastic
pipe. Buttercup was standing!
By the end of the day, Buttercup
was walking. After school, Becky
put a halter on her, and they toured
the farmyard. Two weeks later, Scott
removed the splints. Although her
knees still trembled and swelled,
Buttercup continued to walk.
"Buttercup's legs were wrapped in cotton and splints made from plastic pipe: she was standing!"
But
now her fight against respiratory illnesses began.
Over the next three months,
Becky's columns of medical expenses lengthened. Bill looked at her
journal and groaned. But I knew he
was pleased Becky seemed to
care.
“Does she really?”,
I wondered.
Now
and then, I began thinking so—until
summer arrived, along with the
chance to sleep late. But Becky had
to care for Buttercup. "Why does
she have to be fed at 6am,
Mama?" she pleaded. "What's wrong
with 8am? It's the holidays!"
There was no question at all
about Buttercup's feelings towards
Becky. While Bill and Scott struggled to halter-break young bulls and
heifers, Buttercup now happily followed Becky around the ranch.
Buttercup grows
Autumn and winter slid into
spring. At 13 months, Buttercup
weighed close to 36st. She had
huge brown eyes, four white socks
and a coat that shone like mahogany.
Tiny horns now jutted above her
ragged ears, but she didn't show any
of her mother's unwanted traits.
By spring, Buttercup weighed nearly 36st (credit: Ilo Frey (Pexels))
Becky was determined to win the
blue ribbon at the county fair in
September. "A show calf has to be
perfect," Bill warned. But he hung
the identification tag on the worst of
Buttercup's ears, hoping to disguise
the damage.
Becky began brushing the ears.
"Hair will cover the notches," she
said. "She'll be
almost
perfect."
Pinkeye in July
July brought deadly heat, a profusion
of flies and "pinkeye"—a blinding scourge of cattle. One morning,
six weeks before the fair, Becky
found Buttercup's face stained with
tears. A closer look revealed the
swollen lids and white, unseeing
eyes of the disease. Even with antibiotics, recovery could take up to two
months.
"Daddy," Becky pleaded,
"can, you make her well in time?"
"We'll have to try." Together, Bill
and Becky prepared the medicine,
and Bill glued black patches over the
heifer's eyes to protect them from
glare, flies and dirt.
"The brown's come back in her eyes! She can see!"
A week before the show, the
patches were removed. We held our breath as Becky crouched in front of
Buttercup. "The brown's come back
in her eyes," she cried. "She can see!"
County fair day
Flags, musicians, shouting
children
and bawling cattle added to the
excitement at the county fair. Judging
day for cattle was Saturday. Buttercup was groomed and ready. So was
Becky.
Buttercup turned up to the county fair with a groomed, shiny coat and big brown eyes (credit: Altaf Shah (Pexels))
At 3pm she and the other contestants
were waiting in line to show
their heifers. Horns were polished,
hoofs varnished. Tails were teased
and sprayed.
"She looks great, honey," Bill said.
"Now, don't forget—buyers are in
the crowd. If she wins, you'll get
an offer, and she'll be gone"—he
snapped his fingers—"just like that."
Bill was surprised Becky didn't
show
more excitement. Wasn't this the big
moment she'd been working for?
The gate opened, and Buttercup's
competition entered the ring: five
magnificent, big-boned, long-legged
heifers. "They make Buttercup look
so small", I whispered to Bill.
"For three minutes, Becky recited the names and numbers she'd memorised"
The judge, a rangy Texan, began
checking each heifer carefully, then
questioned its young owner. Most
children talked about feeding schedules and weight gain. Becky's turn
came last.
"Tell me about your
heifer, young lady," he said.
"This is Buttercup," Becky began,
"and she's got the best pedigree in
Arizona. She's by our KC Battle
Prince 74 bull who was by W Battle
Prince 10-12960305, who was by
Domino Prince M194-11116795 . . . "
The judge tipped his hat to the
back of his head and smiled. For
three minutes, Becky recited the
names and dozens of numbers she
had so eagerly memorised. When
she finished, the judge reached for
the microphone.
"Six fine heifers,
ladies and gentlemen. But my choice
for first place is this one." He pointed
to Buttercup. "She'll be a strong
addition to anyone's herd."
Buttercup's potential buyer
Becky
had won her blue ribbon.
By the time Bill and I pushed our
way through the crowd, a buyer was
already running his hand over Buttercup's hips. "Your dad around, miss?"
"Right here," Bill said. "Glad you
like the heifer, but my daughter's the
one who can tell you about her."
As Becky looked at the buyer,
tears welled. "She was the best calf
we ever had," she began. "But her
knees swell up." Her lips trembled
now. "She was frozen when she was
born so she gets ill easily. She needs
somebody to love her all the time."
"Well, now," the buyer
said, winking at Bill and me. "How about I look
at some of your other heifers?"
Bill gave a knowing smile. "Fine."
On the way home, Bill said,
"Becky, let's turn Buttercup out to pasture rather than selling
her. With
the bloodlines she's got, she'll have a
terrific calf, don't you think?" Becky
nodded and hugged her dad.
Becky goes to university
Four years later, Becky was ready
for university. Before she left, we
crossed the field to admire Buttercup's third calf. "Best calf of the
year," Bill said.
Becky grinned. "Daddy, you always did say, 'It's all in the genes.'"
I looked at my husband and then at
our daughter. She was still the maths
genius, but now she was also a lover
of animals and nature.
It is in the
genes,
I thought.
They are so alike.
Penny knew that Becky and Buttercup would never forget one another (credit: Andrew Hall (Unsplash))
"Hi, Butter," Becky
murmured, as
we reached the herd. The cow, with
her calf at her side, ambled up and
lowered her head to be scratched.
"She never forgets me, does she?"
I smiled. I knew Becky would
never forget her either, and one day
she'd understand that Buttercup had
helped her see what's truly important in life. Through Buttercup, my
daughter had learned about the feelings that make us who we are—even
if they don't always add up like a
nice column of numbers.
This article
is part of our archival collection and was originally published in July 1994. While we strive to present historical content accurately, please
note that circumstances and information may have changed since the article's
original publication. Some individuals mentioned in the article may no longer
be alive, and events or details may have evolved. We encourage readers to
consider the context of the original publication and to verify any current
information independently.
Read more from the archives: From darkness to light: The ultimate forgiveness
Read more from the archives: How a man survived 12 hours overboard
Banner photo: The story of Buttercup, the Hereford calf that counted (credit: Allison M. (Unsplash))
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