One

Dimple helped 3027 to her feet. The cow was too heavy for him to lift, but if he held the base of her tail he could steady her as her weak legs wobbled and found their place. Alongside, her tan, soft-eyed calf probed impatiently, nudging the flank, his tongue like a long, flat, rippling leech, survival its only agenda.

There was a bloke on the ute radio saying confidently that drought could be a good thing because it removed the bottom rung of farmers.

‘Wally frigging Oliver,’ Dimple muttered to the cow. ‘Trust an Oliver to insist on survival of the fittest.’

The cow lowed softly as her calf suckled. Reflex or instinct demanded she stay still while her calf drank. Her health bade she was capable of nothing more.

The scene pleased Dimple. At least cow and calf would survive. The birth had been assisted by Dimple and Ruthie, and it had been pretty rough. The calf had been big inside her, had presented with one front leg tucked backwards, and the cow was low on energy. In another year, she would have kept pushing: walking; getting up and down until she convinced the calf to slide into the world. In this season, all she could manage was to push the muzzle and one front foot out.

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