Commentary
I was on my knees in the dirt, blood on my hands, milking colostrum—the life force—from a dying cow named Arabella. Her body was suspended by a hip lift and cradled in the forks of a Bobcat. My husband stood nearby with a 9 mm in hand, waiting. My foster son sat quietly in the Bobcat seat. Several ranch guests looked on, some weeping. My friend Lindsay knelt beside the calf, while Arabella, with the last of her strength, stretched her head to lick her baby.
