Jesse is clearly in trouble. Lying almost inert on the ground, her eyes are dull, her body exhausted.

"She seems to be giving up," Martha says. "She's not trying to push her calf out anymore. We've put more straw and shavings underneath her, but she's just lying there."

"Let me take a look," I say. After observing her from a distance, I take Jesse's temperature, do a comprehensive physical exam, and decide that she has mild milk fever, a calcium deficiency that can paralyze cows and prevent them from calving. I quickly insert a needle into the jugular vein on the side of her neck to give her fluids and calcium.

Moments later, Jesse's eyes brighten, and, emitting a mildly enthusiastic moo, she starts to push again. I tie her tail to her side and wash up her rear end. Next I put on my gloves, roll up my sleeves, and lie in the straw on the icy cold barn floor. Then I gently push my way up into Jesse's uterus to see how Jesse's calf is positioned. I'm two inches too short, so I must strip down more; I take off my vest, flannel shirt, and coveralls and try to extend my reach through the warm amniotic fluid.

Meanwhile, Megan is ambling back and forth from Amy to her parents. She seems to understand her surroundings from having assisted me on so many late-night and early morning calving calls, and she knows that her job is to calm the nervous people by being present and loving, wagging her tail, licking everyone at the most appropriate times.