I sold my horses and cattle in the fall. At 78, after more than 25 years of rural ranching, it was time. I missed the animals immediately.The next spring I began to prepare the ranch for sale. Without the animals, the property felt naked, improper. Fences, nearly a mile defining perimeter and various fields, required repair. The house needed a new roof, siding replacement, a new redwood deck, and a fresh coat of paint. I hired a contractor to do the work.In addition to his contractor work, Manuel also raised cattle on his own 150 acres. Manuel pushed up the tip of his cowboy hat with his fingers and pointed to the field.“Do you want some help with that grass?” he asked.“I'm probably going to have to cut it before we list the ranch,” I said.“Yes, or I can bring some cattle over and take care of it.”“Would you do that? You know I'm going to sell it. It might not be long.”“A month or three, at least, I'd say. That's long enough to make it look good for you and for me to save on feed. I have eight cows getting close to delivery. I wouldn't mind separating them out from the steers.”“That would be great. Save me a lot of work, not to mention reducing fire danger.”“What do you want for grazing rental?” Manuel asked.“Seems like a win–win to me. I just provide water. You take care of the critters, fix fence if needed, chase ’em down the road if they bust out. Right? I'm good with that.”Manuel smiled. “It's customary to pay rest for grazing.” He looked at me.“Maybe, but not needed in this case.”“OK. I'll bring ’em over tomorrow.”At seven the next morning, the motion detector outside the lower entry gate down the driveway beeped twice. I looked out the window and saw Manuel's flatbed diesel pickup coming up the driveway toward the hay barn, pulling a long gray stock trailer. I walked down the hill east of the house and met him as he backed the trailer up to the gate next to the hay barn.“You don't waste any time,” I said. I walked past him toward the gate. “I'll open the gate.”Manuel smiled and said, “Thanks. Lots of good grass here.”I opened the gate and he backed the trailer up to the opening, just clearing the fence post on the latch side of his trailer.He asked, “Are the gates on the other side of the field closed?”“Yes,” I said. “I just need to turn on the water for the trough in the shelter on the other side. It's the only water source for this field.”He nodded.I twisted the latch and pushed the door of the trailer open. Right behind the flood of warm animal air and familiar bovine odor, eight cattle stepped out, seven black Angus and one Charolais, all very round in the belly. The cattle stepped down from the trailer and grabbed tufts of grass as they moved into the field. The cool morning left a little moisture on the long slender wheat-shaft-shaped blades. The cattle footprints were clear in the mist of morning. The small herd separated and wandered from place to place, sampling the tall green field. The single white Charolais, a breed from France, stood out in contrast to the brown and black Angus cattle. Her right-side belly expansion suggested a calf would be born soon. I wondered whether the cow's DNA would be dominant, or if the Angus bull's DNA would determine the calf's color.The next morning I walked down to the field to do a head count. As I opened the door in the laundry room on my way to the fields I heard my wife Suzie's voice behind me.“The cattle are Manuel's responsibility. That's what you said.”“I know. I'm not going to do anything. Just look. Do a head count. That's all.”I heard Suzie laugh. I turned and saw her take a sip of coffee. She waved.I shut the door behind me and took a deep breath of the fresh, cool morning air. Really, I told myself, I'm just going to look. If there's a fence break, I'll call Manuel.Over the next few weeks I kept watch. Within three weeks, seven of the eight calves were born. I visited each calf and mom shortly after birth, sometimes the next morning. My approach was the same each time. Find cow and calf. If the calf was up and active, I just watched. If the calf was sleeping, I approached until mom nudged the calf awake. The calf would stand and go directly for an udder. Aggressive sucking and swishing tail were a good sign.Another week passed and the head count was still seven. The Charolais's calf was the last of the eight. I saw it, finally, separated from the herd out in the west section of the field. I approached to within 30 feet. The calf was sleeping, and mom lay in the grass almost touching it. Mom saw me approaching and stood up.The calf was just under the outspread branches of our huge old oak tree, a hundred fifty yards or more from the western edge of the grassy west side field. The tree trunk of the old oak was six feet in diameter with branches spreading fifty feet in every direction. My neighbors believed the tree to be no less than 250 years old. Some estimates were far older. I had found a grinding bowl worn into a huge granite slab protruding from the ground thirty feet from the base of the tree. I liked to imagine the scene when Ohlone Indians harvested and ground acorns in the shade of the huge tree, maybe staying days or weeks in the area with a stream 100 feet south, a huge bounty of acorns and plenty of game in the hills just beyond the tree to the north.When I came near, the pure white calf looked up at me. It blinked its long cow eyelashes. Mom stood next to the calf. I wanted to see the calf stand. She rose, but her front legs were folded under at the carpal joint, about the same location we might call a knee, but it's actually the fourth of seven leg joints, about halfway from hoof to chest.The contracted tendon condition is known as knuckling. The calf's leg position in the womb, or bone and tendon growth differences, may cause the tendons to be compressed or lengthened. If compressed, the calf will be unable to unfold its legs until the tendon is stretched. In most cases the stretching occurs naturally, and the calf recovers its walking capability.I approached the calf and extended my arm around its belly just behind the front legs. I paused for a moment and felt the warmth of the calf, the heartbeat and shallow breathing. I held the hug. She didn't wiggle or resist. I lifted her front legs. They were bent about 45 degrees at the carpal. I moved my left leg in behind the folded legs and pushed forward. The calf's legs looked tight. They stretched a little, but not enough for the calf to support its weight well on the partially folded legs. I let the calf down to support her own weight. She returned to her leg-folded position lying on the ground. The Charolais cow moved over her calf. The calf was able to reach the dangling udder just enough to milk. I sent a few pictures to Manuel and asked what he wanted to do. He texted back that he would come take a look.I walked back to the house and told Suzie about the calf. I showed Suzie the pictures. She wanted to see for herself. Twenty-five years ago she saw her first live calf birth. She named that calf. When the calf went to market she stopped naming calves, stopped attending to calves, and stopped going out into the field.I took Suzie out to see the white Charolais calf. She approached the calf laying in the grass. The Charolais cow stopped and watched us. Suzie squatted and faced the calf so it could see her. She stroked the head and body of the calf and spoke softly. Several minutes passed while Suzie touched the calf all over its body and spoke in gentle tones. Then Suzie stood up and turned to reach her arm around the calf's body, supporting the chest just behind the front legs. She urged and lifted the calf to a standing position. The calf stood, front legs bent at the carpal joint. Suzie reached down with her left hand and straightened the calf's front legs, holding the calf with its hooves just touching the ground. She supported some of the calf's weight and took small steps, encouraging the little white calf to walk. The heifer took several steps. Suzie repeated the process four times. She removed her arm from the calf's chest. The calf stood for a few seconds, then lifted its tail and shit a little. The excretion was dark and mostly liquid.“The poop's a good sign,” I said. “She's getting nourishment.”When the calf tried to take a step, however, the little heifer's front legs collapsed back to the folded carpal position.Suzie said, “I'll keep working with her. You, too. Several times a day. We can help her stretch the tendons and gain strength.”“Look at the poor little thing,” I said. “She's exhausted.”“You said it's self-correcting most of the time. We can help her heal faster.”“This is the first time I've seen an actual case. We might need help from Dr. Wittman. It's Manuel's calf. We need to find out what he wants to do. He's coming over later this afternoon.”Suzie looked at the calf. “I'll let her rest for a while. Then I'll come back and help her do some more walking. I think she'll be moving around on her own pretty soon.”At 5:30 the driveway sensor buzzed twice and I saw Manuel's flatbed diesel pickup come up the driveway. He stopped next to the gate leading out to the west field. I walked down the driveway and met Manuel as he stood outside his truck, checking messages on his phone.“How far out there is she?” Manuel asked.“Just under the edge of the big old oak tree,” I said as I pointed west.“OK.” Manuel said. “Keeping the calf out of the midday sun. Good. Still, a long way to carry a calf. Should I drive out there?”“Let's go take a look. Suzie has an idea.”“OK, let's go.”He opened the gate and walked through. I followed, closed and latched the gate behind. I led Manuel down the fenced aisle between the north and south fields. The west field was 15 acres. All eight guest cattle and their calves were there, mostly at the fence in the far southwest corner of the field. The knuckled calf was 150 yards back from the fence, just under the drip line of the huge old oak.Manuel examined the calf, lifting, looking at front legs, pushing on the lower segment from carpal joint to hoof. He set the calf back down. “I really don't want this calf in my herd,” Manuel said. “It looks bad. Customers might see this calf as a reflection of the quality of beef I provide.”“What if it's cured and can walk normally?” I asked. “Suzie thinks she can do some physical therapy that will help stretch the tendons. She said she read that in most of the cases the condition is corrected without intervention.”“What about the calves that don't correct?” Manuel asked.“Surgery might be needed. A little snip to help the tendon relax.”“The vet is too expensive. Not worth it. I'd still be left with a defective animal.”“Please let Suzie try. Just a week or two, and we'll know.”“OK,” he said.For the next two weeks I helped the calf walk twice a day. Early morning and late afternoon. The calf was cooperative and walked with encouragement and a little support, but her legs were severely bowed. The Charolais cow permitted the intrusions and stayed with her calf, patiently moving in close for her to nurse, and staying near even though the herd went elsewhere. Late morning and early afternoon, Suzie went out in the field in her rubber boots, jeans, and old ranch coat, lifting the calf to relieve some weight bearing, walking slowly step after step.After a week I asked Suzie as we were doing dishes, “How do you think it's going? Is the calf getting better?”“I looked online. It says we should put splints on her legs.”“I saw that too. Another online expert said splints can cause sores and won't help build strength. So, you don't think she's getting better either?”“Not really. It's so sad to see her there in the grass all alone. Maybe Manuel can do something.”“Do you want me to ask him to take her?”“Yes.”When I asked Manuel to take the calf, he looked at me as if to say, “You did hear what I said about that calf in the first place, right?”I looked at him as if to say, “You know I'm saying this because my wife can't stand to see the calf suffer, right?” He loaded the Charolais cow and her calf into his stock trailer and took them away.Two weeks later Suzie asked me to ask Manuel how the calf was doing. I didn't want to ask. I was sure he had put the calf down. I called Manuel and said, “Sorry to bother you. Suzie wants to know how the Charolais calf is doing.”Manuel said, “I don't want the calf on my property. It makes my herd look bad. I'm bringing her back to your place.”“OK. I understand,” I said. I was surprised, and immediately felt ashamed as I realized I was anticipating a feeling of relief when Manuel told me she had been put down.I saw the calf coming out of Manuel's trailer, trying to walk with bowed front legs, now a month old and double its birth weight. I understood why Manuel didn't want her around. At 170 pounds, the calf was still not moving much, but when she did, it was with carpal joints bent, like walking with bent knees. Now the calf was beginning to look strange with a distended round belly and still small hips. I could barely lift the calf enough to help her move in her grotesque gait from the trailer to the birth spot in the green grass under the edge of the big old oak tree. I looked up at the huge limbs and leafy canopy of the tree. I was thankful for the shade.When Suzie heard the calf was back, I went with her to where the calf was hidden in the tall grass under the drip line of the old oak. Suzie was surprised to see how much weight the calf had gained. Mom was still dutiful and attentive, though now she didn't spend all her time with the calf. She grazed further, spent most of her time with the herd, and went to the calf four or five times a day to allow her to nurse her fill. The cow's milk production was still good. I was pretty sure she would never give up and equally sure the calf would never walk on straight legs.Suzie went out in the field several days in a row. I didn't know how she or the calf was getting along with the physical therapy. The calf was approaching 200 pounds. I was pretty sure it was no longer possible to support the calf's weight enough for the front legs to be straightened.“I can't stand it,” Suzie said. “Nothing helps, and the calf is beginning to look strange with its huge round belly and sad-looking eyes, just lying there in the heat of the day, not able to join the herd. The other calves come to look, but they don't stay. It feels useless and seems cruel, not helpful or healing. I think Manuel was right in the first place.”“OK. I'll ask Manuel what he wants to do. I'm pretty sure I know the answer.”I called Manuel and told him what Suzie said. I was shocked when he said he and his wife, Ocean, performed the same physical therapy Suzie and I had tried, three or four times a day. Manuel brought her back, he said, because they understood Suzie didn't want the calf killed.“I presume you don't want to slaughter the calf and sell the meat,” I said.“I couldn't. Would you buy that meat? What if one of my customers found out? No way.”“I'll dig a grave with my backhoe.” I tried to picture the process. The ground closer to the creek on the south side of the old oak would be soft. Easy to dig. Not so close to the calf that she might be frightened. Some movement of the calf would be necessary at some time. After would probably be better. “Would you help me?”“Sure,” he said. “When?”“Is tomorrow OK?” I began to feel a knot in my stomach. “I'll dig the grave tomorrow before midafternoon. If you can come over late afternoon, we'll do it then.”“OK,” Manuel said. “That works for me. I'll text you when I'm on the way.”I decided not to wait until the next day. I installed the backhoe attachment on the back of my John Deere utility tractor and drove out into the field. I chose a spot in the shade on the south side of the huge oak. There was an open space where the limbs were high enough for the tractor and backhoe to work without restriction. The spot was 75 feet away from the white calf's nesting place. I dug a hole as deep as the backhoe rig on my John Deere would go, easily five feet deep. I piled the dirt on two sides. I dismounted from the tractor and looked down into the grave. It was dark and cool. Almost inviting. It could be mine, I thought, just a little early for either of us. Better than the calf would have experienced if she was perfect at birth. I positioned the tractor and its front scoop blocking one open side. I rotated the backhoe 90 degrees to block the fourth side and protect the hole from attracting accidents.The next afternoon Manuel texted me to say he was on the way. He said he'd meet me at the gate to the field and told me to bring a rifle. I opened my gun safe and took out a Remington lever-action 30-30. I also grabbed six shells from a box of ammunition.I asked Suzie, “I'm going to meet Manuel down in the field and put the white calf out of its misery. Do you want to be there?”“No,” Suzie said. “Don't let that calf suffer any more.”“I'll make it as humane as possible,” I said.Manuel showed up just a minute or two after I reached the gate to the west field. I looked back at the house and saw Suzie on the front porch. She had a pair of binoculars in her hands. The sight line was clear from the porch to the huge old oak tree. More than two hundred yards. Nothing to block the view from the porch to the big oak tree and mound of dirt. I saw her raise the binoculars to her eyes.“I see you're ready,” Manuel said. He looked at the rifle in my left hand, barrel pointed to the ground. “Looks like 308 or 30-30.”“Winchester 30-30,” I said. I showed him the cartridges. “High velocity. Same diameter but not as big a load as the 308. More than enough for a quick kill.” I pushed three shells through the side slot into the rifle and led the way to the calf and the grave close by.“I need to move the tractor out of the way,” I said as we approached the dig. Manuel went to the edge and looked down.“Now that's some grave. Straight sides. Perfect rectangle. I can't even see the bottom. I think you've missed your calling.”“No predators will dig this one up.” I started the tractor, raised and retracted the bucket on the backhoe and moved the rig away from the grave. “Can you help me coax the calf to walk from her shady spot to the grave? I don't want to have to scoop up her body with the tractor. This is a good time. I think she milked recently. She still has some milk on her muzzle. Her mom is way down west with the herd. I don't think she'll be back soon.”Manuel turned toward the calf and walked to her. I leaned the rifle, barrel up, against the four-foot-tall rear tire of the tractor and met Manuel at the calf. Together we lifted her to her feet and half carried her, helping her to walk toward the grave. It didn't take long. The calf stood in front of the grave for a few seconds and then dropped down on its folded forelegs. I retrieved the rifle from the tractor. I put my right hand through the cocking lever, pushed the lever down and pulled it back up, injecting a bullet into the chamber. I released the hammer slowly and set the safety. I looked at the calf, kneeling there. I looked at Manuel who was looking at me. I thought I should have tried the splints. Maybe I should have asked our vet to do the tendon cutting procedure without telling Manuel.I took a deep breath and exhaled. I said, “I will do this. But I haven't done it before. I don't want to botch it and make the calf suffer. My neighbor told me about missing a kill shot on a pig. It was a train wreck of blood and screaming, running pig. He swore he'd never do it again. I know you have done this. Would you mind? Will you think me a coward? I admit I don't really want to do it.”Manuel said, “I understand. I'll do it.” He put out his hand. I held the rifle up for him to take.“You sure?” I asked.“Sure,” he said. Manuel pulled the lever of the rifle back a little to see the round in the chamber. He pushed the lever back into position, cocked the hammer with his thumb, released the safety, pointed the barrel tip a few inches from the calf's forehead and pulled the trigger.