It is hard to watch something suffer when you know its name.

It is particularly difficult when that thing is named “Toodles.” 

We were on the second day of our spring vacation and looking for a romantic place to camp — or at least I was. We drove our camper 10 miles up the dirt road and parked on a high point with a 360-degree view. My mate and I were sitting in lawn chairs reading when she noticed a newborn calf lying about 30 yards away. There were no other cattle around, though we could tell some had been there recently. Obviously, that calf had been left behind. 

 “I think that little guy is hungry,” Ellen said.

“Its mother will take care of it,” I said,  

“Look around, do you see any mothers?”

“Well you’re not his mother.” How wrong I was. 

My mate went into the camper and returned with my commemorative Tour De France water bottle filled with half-and-half.

“Did you save some for our coffee tomorrow?” I asked.

Her silence told me that she had not.

Ellen was able to hook her arm around his neck and force the bottle in his mouth. At first it resisted, but once it tasted the milk it went crazy. My mate named the calf Toodles.

Before long it had drank all of our cream and soy milk. 

After his first sip, Toodles followed Ellen around with a bovine devotion and his nose on her hip. The affection was mutual — this was the closest my mate had come to motherhood and it was a shame her first child had four legs.

I was inclined to put my foot down — Toodles was not our responsibility. Whoever owned him would come get him or not. I was going to say all that, but instead I drove 20 miles to the nearest truck stop to buy some cream while my mate and her steak waited at our campsite.

It brings me no pride to say this, but I hoped that by the next morning Toodles would have wandered off or died because I knew that was the only way we would be rid of him. But as soon as the sun rose we heard him braying. He had slept under our camper. 

Ellen fed her baby breakfast using the rest of the cream I purchased the afternoon before while I worked the phone to find Toodles’ parents. 

I called the sheriff, the Bureau of Land Management and even the nearest veterinarian to see if anyone knew who had the permit to graze on that public land. Both the BLM and sheriff said to leave the calf to fend for itself, but the veterinarian did give us directions to a nearby ranch that might take care of Toodles until the rightful owner could be located. 

I have learned that there are times in a marriage when negotiations are possible and times you’re loading a cow into the back of your RV. In this case, I found myself driving on Interstate 70 with livestock in my camper. 

We were within miles of the ranch when Toodles’ rightful owner called. She had gotten my number from the BLM. 

I made the mistake of pulling over and bringing my phone to the back of the RV, where my mate and Toodles were lounging on the couch.

Ellie agreed to bring Toddles to an area about 20 miles from the spot where we found him in the opposite direction that we were going. 

I made a U-turn on the highway using one of those turnarounds reserved for emergency vehicles. If I got stopped, I just hoped the cop also had a crazy wife and would understand.

One hour and 50 miles later we were wandering through a herd of cattle looking for Toodles’ mother. Unfortunately, cows are like hamburger — they all look alike. Ellen reluctantly left her baby amongst the pack hoping his mother would find him. She called the rancher with detailed directions to Toodles and suggested they come as soon as possible to make sure he had been reunited.

For the next couple of days Ellen would tear up with worry. “We never should have left him,” she said.

I tried to assure her that we did what the owner asked and to do any more might be considered rustling, but my mate was inconsolable.    

Two days later, we received a text from the rancher with a photo of Toodles being bottle fed by a little barefoot kid wearing overalls. Ellen was so happy she cried with joy. 

I teared up too, knowing there would be half-and-half in the next day’s coffee.

Jeffrey Bergeron’s column “Biff America” publishes Mondays in the Summit Daily News. Bergeron has worked in TV and radio for more than 30 years, and his column can be read in several newspapers and magazines. He is the author of “Mind, Body, Soul.” Bergeron arrived in Breckenridge when there was plenty of parking and no stoplights. Contact him at biffbreck@yahoo.com.