My Take Tuesday: The Calf We Lost

Reindeer calve in the spring—April and May, typically—when the days grow longer, and the earth begins to warm. There’s wisdom in that natural rhythm. Calves born during this window have the best odds: they are carried to full term, born into a world where the conditions are gently improving, where warmth and forage steadily increase. Nature, when left to its design, rarely miscalculates.

But sometimes, for reasons we don’t fully understand, things don’t follow the plan. A calf comes too early. A placenta detaches. A mother delivers before the lungs are ready, before strength has found its way into the legs. These calves enter the world not with a leap, but with a struggle. They are premature, small, quiet. Their eyes blink open with a gentleness that feels like a whisper—and yet, everything in you wants them to roar to life.

This past week, I lost a calf. A little female. She was sweet and wide-eyed, with ears like velvet and the tiniest trace of spunk, even in her weakness. We did everything we could—plasma transfusions, oxygen, heat, tube feedings every two hours. We wrapped her in blankets, lifted her gently to try and help her stand. We whispered encouragements that she didn’t understand, but that we needed to say anyway. We watched. We waited. We hoped.

But sometimes, even everything isn’t enough.

There’s a deep ache in losing an animal you’ve tried to save. It’s not just the absence they leave—it’s the stillness that settles in after the last heartbeat, the quiet heartbreak that lingers in the stall, and the way the mother circles, confused and grieving in her own silent language. I’ve seen a lot of life in this work, but death always stings. It chips away at you in small, unspoken ways.

This isn’t the part we like to talk about. When people think of animal care, they picture baby animals wobbling to their feet, warm bottles in the barn, fuzzy faces nudging your hand. And all of that is real. But so is this—the loss, the helplessness, the heavy truth that even our best efforts sometimes fall short.

And yet, we keep showing up. We keep raising animals. We keep loving them, caring for them, mourning them. We do it again and again, because the joy outweighs the grief, even if just barely sometimes. Because each life is worth it, no matter how brief. Because even a short chapter can change you.

She didn’t get to grow up. But for a few hours, she was deeply loved.

And that matters.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM