February nights in Iowa can be breathtaking. Temperatures around zero can fall to 50 degrees below zero with the wind chill before dawn breaks. It was a cold, wintry night when the phone rang at 1:30 in the morning. A voice on the other end slowly asked, "Were you sleeping, Jim?"

I immediately recognized the voice of Jim Wells, a Good Samaritan bachelor. I wanted to answer with "Oh, hell no, Jim, I was up canning tomatoes," but I didn't. Remembering Jim as being a good caretaker of his livestock, I was my usual, easy, cool self, considering what time of day it was.

"I have a cow that has been calving since 6 p.m. She isn't gaining so I figured it's about time to check her out," Jim told me on the phone.

I thought to myself, that's nice to know. I could have done this in the early evening if the cow's been laboring since 6. But I told Jim, "OK, I'll be right down."

"And," he said, "I tried the other vet in Parnell so as not to bother you, but he said he doesn't do night calls anymore. I thought maybe you would help my cow."

I was even happier knowing I was second choice, but at least Jim was honest with me. I ambled to my coveralls and boots and headed out--on my way to Missouri.

Jim and I met in the drive where he informed me the cow was penned in a old non-electrified chicken house.

He hoped I had a flashlight. Jim remarked, "She was real tame when I drove her in, but now she is a little nervous."

"Oh boy," I said, "it sounds like fun."

I stuck my head in the door of the dingy little chicken house. It was a 1900s version, old fashioned laying house where hens laid their eggs. Rows of unused nests lined the wall. I looked around for a pole to tie a rope to but found none. I could see no avenue of escape either, except for a small feed room. For my own protection I always looked for an escape route in case all hell broke loose.

The cow warily looked at me but did not charge. I walked on in with the equipment--a flashlight, lariat rope, a bucket of warm water, an obstetrics bag that contained a chain and snare and the calf jack. The jack is a tool about 6 feet long that helps deliver hard-to-pull calves.

I proceeded to get a rope around the cow's head on the first throw. Amazingly, she did not react wildly. I then threaded the rope through a hole around a support of the shabby building. I was positive this would restrain her.

We got her tied short to make my examination. The calf was a normal presentation, but the cow's pelvis was extremely small. Under these conditions, I feared doing a cesarean and went ahead to attempt a "normal" delivery.

I placed the OB chains on the calf's feet and pulled. Its head went back. I put a head snare on and again applied pressure. There didn't seem to be birthing room, so I put the calf jack in place and attached it to the chain and snare. As I tightened the tension of the jack, the cow became hysterical and lunged and jumped.

Suddenly, the restraint rope released and the cow was loose. My 6-foot jack was firmly in place, sticking from behind her like a club. I yelled to Jim to get to safety as the 1,500-pound animal bucked through the dark building. As the cow banged around, the calf jack sounded like a gun firing every time it hit the floor. The swinging jack could have easily killed one of us.

The more the jack banged the wilder the cow became. For safety, I dove into the dark feed room and shut the door. Jim had retreated outside. In time, the cow tired and began to settle down.

Not venturing far from my safe hole, I carefully retrieved my rope. I looped her again and retied her to the support. She didn't offer resistance. Surprisingly, the unborn calf was still alive, and with one more hard pull, the calf came through the narrow pelvis.

A miracle had happened again. A new, vibrant, live calf flopped back and forth. It was trying to get on its feet but kept falling back down on its side. We released the cow, and her maternal instinct kicked in as she aggressively began licking the newborn. She paid absolutely no attention to Jim or me.

"Isn't that something?" Jim said. "It was a little trouble, but it was worth it."

"Yes," I replied. "It's always so great to get a live calf."

We made our good-byes, and I then realized I was wide awake. I took a deep breath of fresh, cold air and saw that the stars were bright. There was a big, beautiful, full moon watching over. There was no wind, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my neck.

As I drove down the old Missouri road, I crossed a wooden bridge that had no rails. The frost on the roadside weeds flashed on and off like Christmas lights reflected in my truck's headlights. What a beautiful sight!

I thought how most people were sleeping in the warmth of their beds and didn't even know what they were missing. I love being a veterinarian I told myself.