The rancher kneels in hay-strewn manure, his cold blue eyes and straight jaw shaded by his cowboy hat. He holds a lassoed day-old calf in his arms as its mother cow sniffs at him, its breath visible in the bitter March cold. A constant chorus of moos rings from the surrounding herd.
He pushes a plunger of pink liquid into the calf’s mouth as it wriggles. He holds its snout shut for a moment to make sure it swallows, then lets it go. It lays stunned for a moment before he pats it on its backside and it springs up, walking in a daze back to its mother’s side.
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