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Calf Chronicles, 369 Bristol Road, Inglewood (2026)

28/08/2026

Holy moly. There are 9,000 of us here.

When I started Calf Chronicles, it was to diarise what I was up to and what I was learning. A gift to the past version of me who struggled with calf rearing and felt alone. I wanted to share what I was learning, what helped, what went wrong and what I was still figuring out so that someone else didn’t have to walk through the flames like I did.

Somehow, that small idea has become quite a large thing, even though it doesn’t really feel it and I’m still astounded when I meet people in real life and they say they’ve read my writing.

Calf rearing is complex, important work requiring skill, patience, consistency and continual learning. It’s probably the most invisible, undervalued and unrecognised role in the dairy and dairy beef industry. I hope by waving the flag a bit we can do better for the calves and the people who work with them.

So at this point, I turn this over to the followers.
What would you like to see more of?

Practical ideas? Straightforward science? Honest conversations? Videos and demonstrations? Answers to real farm questions? More on nutrition, health, housing, hygiene, behaviour, welfare and management?

The calf-related disasters are a given, I know they will be coming round the corner at any moment.

Comment with the topics, questions or challenges you’d find most useful to see a post about.

Thank you for being part of this community and for continuing to show up for yourself and the calves in your care.

As for the video, the calves in Pen R1 took over the job of spreading the fresh shavings out for me today. One of their favourite jobs

28/08/2026

Getting the taste for dairy farming first hand
The Shoof Intern

Many years ago, when I was teaching horse riding to children, one of the fundamental principles was that you can’t truly describe what strawberry jam tastes like to someone else. At some point, you have to get them taste it themselves. In the horse riding sense, get them to experience what it should feel like rather than just describe it.

This week, Tracy, the Marketing Manager for Shoof, came to taste the strawberry jam that is dairy farming. Not being a farmer herself, we had had a few conversations talking general calf stuff and she was genuinely interested in how some of the Shoof products stood up in a farming context. After all, it's one thing to pen all sorts of marketing write up about them, it's another to really understand the environment they are used in.

Through a few conversations, we built a rapport, and Tracy was brave enough to ask if she could come and spend a week working with us. Not visit for a few hours. Not stand at the gate in clean gumboots while we demonstrated a few products. Actually live with us, get up each morning and become part of the daily rhythm of the farm. That is an incredibly rare thing and pretty amazing in my book.

Companies often ask farmers for feedback. We fill in surveys, trial products and explain what works, what doesn’t and what we wish someone had thought about before it reached us. There is a limit to what can be captured in a feedback form, because a product is never used in isolation. It is used with cold hands, in driving rain, while calves need feeding, cows need checking and three other jobs need doing. It has to fit into a whole farm system, with all its time pressure, compromises and moving parts.

To understand that, sometimes you have to see it through our eyes, touch it with your own hands and logic through how each part works. And so the Shoof internship began.

Tracy worked with the fresh calved cows collecting first milkings, Brix testing and managing the colostrum through to the calf, scrubbed what seemed like a million water buckets, fed and taught calves to drink, milked cows, observed calvings and pitched in wherever she was needed. All day, every day, for the best part of a week.

She sat around the dinner table with us each night while we reflected on the day, with loads of quality questions about what she had seen. Right before we all pulled our gear back on and headed outside again for night checks. She didn’t just see the jobs, she experienced the full rhythm of farming over a busy calving period.

And man, did this week give her the full experience.

There were scouring calves, cows breaking out, freezing mornings, pouring rain and then enough sudden warmth to have us all peeling off layers like weirdly dressed st*****rs. As if that was not entertaining enough, she also watched me drop the clutch on the two-wheeler, ride directly into an electric fence and fall off.

But she saw the deeply human side of farming too. Together, we watched one of our favourite cows give birth and celebrated the safe arrival of her calf. The following day, that same cow died. Tracy witnessed the tears and grief that came with losing her. In less than 24 hours, she saw how quickly farming can move from joy and relief to shock and heartbreak.

There was no polished or carefully curated version of our farm this week. She saw the highs, the lows, the good, the bad, the trade-offs and all the imperfect bits in between. She saw the constant decision-making, the frustration, the humour, the exhaustion and just how deeply we care about the animals we look after.

That is why this experience has been so powerful. Because she did not come here assuming she already understood farmers just because she worked for a company that supplies them. She was prepared to step completely outside her own world, become vulnerable, ask questions, get her hands dirty and learn from the people using those products in real life. It takes courage and humility to do that.

Customer feedback is valuable. But living with your customer, working beside them and seeing the world through their eyes is something else entirely.

I have enormous admiration for Tracy for being brave enough to do it. I am sure the experience will make her better at her job, but I think it did something valuable for us too. Her questions made us stop and explain the hundreds of decisions and small details that have become instinctive to us. She didn’t just listen to what we do, she wanted to understand why we do it.

That is where this became more than a product trial or a week of customer research. It became a genuine exchange between someone who helps shape how products are understood and the farmers who must make those products work in real life. That kind of connection is rare, and incredibly powerful.

And she cleaned my microwave, so frankly, Shoof may never get her back. I may be preparing a counteroffer for her employment.

Tracy arrived wanting to see farming through our eyes. By the end of the week, she wasn’t standing on the outside looking in. She was pulling her wet gear back on after dinner and heading out for night checks with the rest of us.

That is the difference between asking someone what strawberry jam tastes like and being prepared to taste it for yourself.

It has been an absolute pleasure and privilege to welcome Tracy into our home and have her become part of our farm for the week. I hope she left with a deeper understanding of farming, because we were certainly left with enormous respect for her willingness to truly understand us.

Picture of Tracy herself with her “freshies” learning to feed

28/08/2026

An update on the teat-chewing calf.

She now has a name. Miss Red Sassy Fusspot.

Because if ever a calf required a full name as large as her personality, it is this one.

The good news is that we appear to have found a way to accommodate her rather particular needs. She has gained six kilos in the past week, which is a vastly better trajectory than she was on. I’m ever hopeful she can now continue to thrive and become a successful dairy replacement.

There are probably several things going on with this calf. She has had that unusual teat-chewing mouth action from day one and, although she initially appeared to be coping with it, it became very clear that she was going backwards after a week in the bigger pens.

We trialled numerous teats before settling on a larger, more rigid rubber teat that she cannot twist sideways in her mouth. She did not immediately agree with our selection. We had to go right back to basics and teach her to drink again, because she seemed to have decided that this was something she simply could not do, and she would rather flit around the pen being super skinny than actually stop for a meal.

I had also started noticing that she wasn’t settling into a proper drink. She would suck briefly, break away, then return and repeat the whole process.

I have seen that pattern in calves that are stressed, unwell or uncomfortable, and one possibility in a poorly thriving milk-fed calf is unreliable closure of the oesophageal groove. If that groove partially or completely fails to close, some milk can enter the rumen instead of bypassing it for the abomasum. Once there, it can ferment and contribute to discomfort, poor appetite and poor growth.

But her feeding behaviour alone cannot prove that was happening. Breaking away from the teat is an observation, not a diagnosis, and there may be several things contributing to what we are seeing with Miss Red.

What we do know is that groove closure is part of a coordinated, conditioned feeding response. Voluntary sucking, the familiar feeding routine and the calf’s anticipation of milk can all contribute. In fact, the response can begin before the milk arrives when a calf recognises the normal cues around feeding, which is why adlib calves need us as humans to be a little more hands off so their cue is approaching the feeder, not the human approaching them.

So twice a day, Miss Red Sassy Fusspot is offered warm, fresh colostrum through her specially selected teat. Her ad lib drum remains available all day and night, although she appears to believe she is now a twice-a-day calf because my arrival has become her cue to drink, which is not ideal.

Warm milk is not necessarily required to make the groove close, and I cannot claim that the higher protein or fat in colostrum directly improves closure. What the warm, fresh colostrum does seem to provide for Miss Red is something highly palatable and nutrient-dense that she is keen to drink. That willingness to latch, suck properly and settle into a familiar routine may be the most important part.

Twice a day, I "hide" a warm bottle of colostrum inside the drum holding colostrum for the newborn calves, but put her individual straw directly into the warm bottle. That gets her started with the correct teat, warm milk and the feeding routine she now expects. I'm trying very hard to ensure she does not associate me with food, but it seems to be failing as yes, she also prefers me standing beside her. She has become pen mates with Miss Black, the poorly calf from last week and the two hang out together. It's getting to the stage where I can now get her started feeding and leave her to it, so long as Miss Black is there, so I still have hope we may get back to a self serve adlib system.

At her age, the colostrum is not giving her systemic passive immunity in the way first colostrum does for a newborn. Gut closure has long since occurred. It is, however, highly nutritious and contains bioactive and locally protective components that may offer some immunity support while she recovers from what has clearly been a calorie deficit.

With all of that in place, she is now latching properly, drinking a reasonable volume and putting on weight. Hopefully, as the feeding behaviour becomes established, I can gradually reduce the amount of faffing around required. Because that is always the tension with a calf like this.

This season, I have had the opportunity to spend this time with her. That is not always a given. On a dairy farm there are a million other animals, jobs and responsibilities all demanding attention at once. Sometimes, very sadly, the one calf that cannot adapt needs more individual time than you genuinely have available.

That is the difficult reality of triage. It isn’t necessarily that someone doesn’t care enough. Sometimes there simply isn’t enough of one person to go around and more difficult decisions might need to be made.

So, we are not over the line yet, and I have deliberately held back from declaring her fixed. But the trajectory is certainly looking much more positive.

Unfortunately, I also appear to have adopted Miss Red Sassy Fusspot. She is taking up far too much of my time, has trained me beautifully, and I am becoming far too attached as she also lives for snuggles and comes flying over everytime I am in the shed. Exactly as she probably intended.

Picture of her and Miss Black who also likes warm milk.

The other picture - the warm milk disguised amoungst the fresh colostrum that is out for the few other new calves that are in the pen. (I'm rolling my eyes at this point that I can't believe it's come to this - haha!)

27/08/2026

Trolls

A quick heads-up Calf Chronicles community.

We’ve had a few trolls pop onto the page today saying some pretty gnarly things.

I’ve had my share over the years and mostly feel sad and sorry for people who choose to behave that way. I can block anyone taking a personal crack at me, but I don’t want them harassing you or your comments, they’re what make this page what it is.

I try to monitor most comments but it is a busy time of year.

If anyone targets you, please send me a screenshot and feel free to report the comment directly to Facebook. I’ll use admin powers to show them the gate.

Opinions and healthy debate are welcome. Bullies and trolls are not (unless they’re this friendly guy with green hair. I was an 80s child who loved these in the 90s)

27/08/2026

Do you leave the scouring calf in the pen, or take it out?

This was the decision weighing on me yesterday.

I had calves scouring, but I did not have calves that looked sick.

They were warm, hydrated and drinking. They stood easily, had a good suck and were still interested in everything happening around them. Their poo had changed, but the calves themselves had not noticeably changed.

I was also seeing calves in several different pens following the same trajectory. Those pens were separate and different groups of calves, but they had all experienced the same disruptions and inconsistencies in feeding.

That pattern made me more confident this was a situational response to what had happened with their feeding, rather than an infection simply passing from one calf to the next.

More confident, but never completely certain.

That is what makes this decision difficult. There genuinely is not one completely right answer.

The science says there are very good reasons to remove a scouring calf from the pen.

Most infectious scour pathogens spread through the faecal-oral route. A calf does not need to deliberately eat poo. Tiny amounts move on bedding, boots, teats, feeders, water, hands and other calves.

A single infected calf can shed enormous numbers of organisms. Rotavirus can be heavily shed for several days. Cryptosporidium oocysts are produced in huge numbers and survive well in the environment.

Even if the other calves have already been exposed by the time I see the scour, the amount of exposure still matters. Leaving that calf in the pen means it continues adding infectious material to the environment.

Removing it may lower the challenge for the calves around it. It also allows me to see exactly what the infected calf drinks, treat it without competition and notice quickly if it begins to deteriorate.

That is a strong argument for isolation.

But then I have to look at what removal means on my farm.

My isolation bay is not inside the greenhouse. I would be taking a calf out of its environment, away from familiar pen-mates and the feeding setup it understands, and putting it into a noticeably different climate.

Calves are also social animals. Research into calf housing has found that socially housed calves generally eat more starter, cope better with change and are less fearful than individually housed calves.

That research does not specifically prove that a scouring calf will recover faster if I leave it with its mates. But it does tell me that removing a calf from everything familiar is not a consequence-free decision.

So I was standing there with two perfectly valid concerns for 8 calves across 3 pens.

If I left these calves where they were and I was wrong about the cause, I could increase the infectious challenge for the rest of the group.

If I moved them and I was right that this was a response to feeding inconsistency, I would be adding another change, another feeding setup, social separation and a climate shift to calves that were still otherwise coping.

Neither option felt entirely comfortable.

The appearance of the poo could not make that decision for me either.

Diarrhoea is a sign, not a diagnosis. Veterinary science describes everything from loose faeces in an otherwise healthy calf through to dehydration, acidosis, weakness, depression and collapse.

The amount of liquid coming out the back does not neatly tell us how systemically sick the calf is. I need to look at the whole calf.

Is it bright?

Does it stand easily?

Is it warm?

Is it hydrated, or are its eyes sinking and its skin beginning to tent?

Is it drinking its normal volume with a strong suck?

Is it steady on its feet?

Is it continuing to compete comfortably within the group?

Then I look beyond the individual calf.

Is this one sudden case in an otherwise healthy pen?

Are the calves immediately around it beginning to follow?

Or, as I was seeing, are calves in several separate pens changing at the same time after experiencing the same disruption?

Patterns do not give us a guaranteed diagnosis. A common infectious source can also reach several pens. But the pattern helps us weigh what is more likely.

Yesterday, mine remained bright and drinking. Several different pens that had experienced the same milk disruption were following the same course. Moving them would not fix the shared cause. It would simply create another change.

So I left them in their established groups.

I had corrected the feeding problem, marked the affected calves and kept watching them closely.

That did not mean I had decided there was no infectious risk. It meant that, with the information I had at that moment, maintaining familiarity and consistent feeding seemed more helpful than moving them.

My threshold for changing that decision remained low.

A calf is coming out if it becomes dull, cold, weak, dehydrated or reluctant to drink. It is coming out if it loses its suck, cannot compete at the feeder, needs tubing or requires repeated individual care.

I would also be much quicker to remove one sudden, profusely scouring calf from a previously unaffected pen, especially if there were blood, fever, rapid spread or another reason to suspect an infectious outbreak.

On the other hand, I may leave a calf where it is, with close monitoring, if it remains bright, warm, hydrated and drinking, particularly when calves in several pens are responding to the same known disruption and the available sick bay would create a significant environmental change.

Leaving it does not mean doing nothing.

It means marking it, checking its temperature and hydration, watching its intake and behaviour, keeping the bedding dry and knowing exactly what change would make me move it.

It also means treating the pen as potentially exposed, not adding younger calves and being careful about carrying contamination on boots and equipment.

The official biosecurity answer is to isolate scouring calves, and the infectious-disease science behind that advice is strong.

But on farm we also have to consider the individual calf, what caused the scour, the pattern across the shed and what our isolation facilities actually offer.

Sometimes removing the calf is clearly the right decision.

Sometimes leaving it in the environment where it is warm, drinking and coping may be the better of two imperfect options.

And sometimes, as it was for me yesterday, there is no beautifully obvious right answer.

There is only the information in front of me, the risks on both sides, and the responsibility of choosing which risk I believe is greater.

Those decisions weigh heavily because I know being wrong in either direction can have consequences.

So I make the best decision I can for the calf in front of me, even if it isn’t text book perfect, keep watching, and stay willing to change my mind when the calf gives me new information.

Picture of an unaffected calf in one of the affected pens, seems breakfast in bed was on the menu.

26/08/2026

The "Poo-nami" (rhymes with tsunami)

As if yesterday’s calf scours weren’t enough poo for one day, we were also dealing with a slightly different variety outside.

An "honesty gate" may have been left late one night, and it turns out the dry cows are not actually that honest. Instead of staying where they were supposed to, they spent the night huddled up close and personal around both of my calf sheds.

Excellent.

Adult cow poo is something I really don’t want being tracked into calf sheds. Not because every cow pat is automatically infectious, but because perfectly healthy adult cattle can carry and intermittently shed bugs capable of causing disease in calves.

The science is basically faecal-oral transmission. The cow doesn’t have to look sick. The manure gets onto concrete, boots, bedding or equipment, and from there it only needs to find its way to a calf’s mouth. Young calves are particularly vulnerable because their immune systems are still developing and they haven’t had years of exposure to the bugs an adult cow has. Pathogens associated with calf diarrhoea, including rotavirus, coronavirus, salmonella and cryptosporidium, can all be transmitted through faecal contamination, although calves themselves are generally the much bigger amplifiers of some of these bugs once infection gets going.

So suddenly we had another biosecurity job on our hands.

First up was washing and disinfecting all the concrete outside the newborn shed, then doing our best to hose the worst of the contamination away from around the bigger shed.

We’ve also stepped up the boot washing and added a second layer with Stalosan dry disinfectant at the entry points.

I quite like Stalosan for situations like this. It doesn’t replace actually removing the poo, cleaning surfaces or our normal boot hygiene, but it gives us another barrier. Particularly handy when water access is awkward, a footbath freezes, or, as in this case, circumstances suddenly mean I want another line of defence between outside poo and inside calves.

Biosecurity is so often not one magic disinfectant or one perfect system. It is layers.

Remove as much contamination as possible. Clean. Disinfect. Keep dirty and clean traffic separated. Add another barrier where you can.

Because apparently yesterday’s theme was poo.

Inside the shed. Outside the shed.

A genuine poonami.

Various pictures related to the poonami containment include my freshly washed concrete, the stalosan footbath (which is an old fishbin) and the scene of some of the crimes.

26/08/2026

Managing the current scours “outbreak"

Over the past couple of weeks, I have had 75 calves on a feeder trial that has not quite gone to plan.

However hard everyone worked to fill the gaps, we simply have not been able to deliver consistently reliable feeding. There has been some fairly heroic extra work from everyone involved, but effort and outcome are not always the same thing.

The calves still experienced inconsistency, and that has put them under stress.

To correct it, we changed the feeding system. At the same time, we rearranged some pens so the calves were grouped according to their size, feeding confidence and how they were coping, rather than simply by age.

Both changes were necessary, but they created another period of adjustment. Different feeding delivery, different pen mates, different group sizes and another change in routine.

We also gave their first Covexin vaccination this week to remain on schedule. I do not think the vaccination caused the scours, but it was one more event during an already unsettled week.

And now, out of those 75 calves, I have eight that have been observed scouring.

They are spread across three pens rather than clustered in one group. Given everything the calves have had to adjust to, it was not completely unexpected, but that does not stop my brain from immediately going into overdrive.

Technically, I suppose I have a scours “outbreak”.

Except "outbreak" sounds rather more dramatic than the eight calves actually standing in front of me.

All eight are up, mobile and continuing to drink. None are currently showing obvious dehydration or systemic illness. They have access to their usual ad lib milk, fresh water and electrolytes.

So I have scouring calves, but I do not currently have sick-looking calves. That is the bit I am trying to hold on to.

It does not mean I am ignoring the scour. It means I am trying to look at the whole calf before reacting to what is coming out the back end.

For now, the amount of feeding inconsistency, stress and change these calves have experienced provides a fairly plausible explanation for what I am seeing. I cannot be certain that is the whole story, but I also do not need to invent a more dramatic one while the calves remain bright and drinking.

So I have gone back to the basics.

Their feeding is consistent again. The pens have been refreshed with clean bedding and Stalosan. I am being more conscious of hygiene around boots, feeding equipment and movement between groups.

Milk feeding has continued because scouring calves still need energy. There is plenty of fresh water and oral electrolyte available, and I am topping it up regularly.

I am also making sure the affected calves are actually drinking. A full electrolyte container tells me it was offered. It does not tell me which calf drank it.

Then I watch.

Not a casual glance over the gate and a vague hope that everything will sort itself out. I am watching whether the same eight calves continue to scour, whether new ones join them, how eagerly they drink and whether anything changes in their demeanour or hydration.

If that picture changes, my response will change with it.

A calf refusing milk, becoming dull, dehydrated, feverish, cold, weak or unable to stand would be a very different situation. So would a sharp rise in cases or a group that simply was not beginning to improve.

That would be the point to involve the vet, test further and reconsider whether treatment, isolation or biosecurity needed to change.

For now, I am in the uncomfortable middle ground between panicking and feeling like I am doing nothing.

I have corrected what I can. I am supporting the calves and watching the direction of travel.

There are also some useful things on my side. These calves received good first colostrum, followed by two weeks of extended transition milk. They are drinking a highly digestible, high-quality milk replacer and are now back on a regular feeding programme.

None of that makes them invincible. It does give them a stronger foundation from which to cope and recover.

I hope the obvious scouring will begin settling over the next few days now that feeding and routines are consistent. But I do not expect them all to suddenly look even, glossy and thriving by Friday.

Recovery takes longer than firming up the poo.

Am I frustrated? Absolutely.

I have put a huge amount of work into giving these calves a strong start. Rationally, I can look at the eight calves in front of me, see that they are bright and drinking, understand the pressures they have been under and know that I have a sensible plan.

But that does not mean my brain will leave it there.

It will occupy far more space in my head than eight bright, scouring calves probably warrant. I will replay the feeding problems, question every decision and wonder whether I should have spotted something sooner or done something differently.

Underneath all of that is the vulnerable little question that appears whenever something goes wrong with my calves:

"Have I done enough?"

I know good management reduces risk. It does not remove biology. I know having scours in the calf shed does not automatically mean I have failed.

Knowing that does not make me immune to feeling it.

Perhaps that is part of caring deeply about the outcome. You can be calm, practical and measured in what you do, while still carrying the weight of it around in your head.

So tonight I will probably think about these eight calves more than they are thinking about me.

Tomorrow I will go back, look at the calves rather than just the poo, and see what new information they give me.

Because the measure is not whether anything ever goes wrong.

It is whether I keep looking, keep learning and keep responding to what is actually standing in front of me.

Picture today of Pen L2 and the calves enjoying their new refreshed shavings like they always do. I think it must be like the luxury of sliding into freshly laundered sheets.

25/08/2026

Winning Wednesday
Embracing my inner squirrel

On a fairly standard calving day.
Breakfast happens.
Then a calf is born.
Then another one needs something.
Then a piece of machinery decides today is its day to have a crisis.
Then I duck back to the office for a Zoom call.
Then another calf is born.
Then the majority of calves need feeding
Then I remember three other jobs I was meant to do.

And somewhere along the way, lunch gets further and further away from breakfast until I suddenly realise I am no longer just hungry. I am hangry.

I embrace my inner squirrel at these times as I’ve got stashes of food hiding all over the farm. My particular go to is UHT protein shakes

One in the calf shed.
One in the vehicle.
One in a random shed.
One wherever I think future me is likely to end up when the day has completely gone off script.

The beauty of them is not that they are fancy. It is that they are ridiculously practical.

They are shelf stable until opened, so they can just sit there waiting. No fridge, no prep, no remembering to pack something fresh. And so far the rats haven’t had a crack at them.

They do two jobs at once.

They are fluid, which is useful when I have somehow spent all day making sure every calf has drunk enough while forgetting to drink much myself.

And they are food, with a decent hit of protein, so they actually take the edge off hunger and give me something more substantial to run on than another coffee or a quick sugar hit.

Protein is also useful during a physically busy day because it helps with satiety and gives the body amino acids for muscle maintenance and repair.

But the bit I really enjoy is the squirrel system.

Past LeAnne, in a rare moment of organisation, hides a protein shake somewhere sensible. Then days later Current LeAnne is standing in the middle of the farm, hungry, slightly feral and wondering how breakfast was somehow seven hours ago.

So I wander off into some completely random shed.

My husband watches me go with mild bemusement.

Then I reappear thirty seconds later carrying a protein shake like I have just successfully raided my own secret bunker.

There it is.

A snack gift from Past LeAnne.

And for about thirty seconds I am enormously impressed with her.

Past LeAnne knew this would happen.

Past LeAnne planned ahead.

Past LeAnne apparently cared about Current LeAnne in a way that Current LeAnne, left to her own devices, absolutely would not have.

So yes, I am now basically leaving food caches around the farm for myself like a slightly frazzled squirrel, while my husband slowly discovers that apparently every shed on the property may contain emergency provisions.

And there is something oddly satisfying about stumbling across one at exactly the moment I need it.

A tiny act of kindness from Past Me to Present Me.

Calf rearing has taught me a lot about planning ahead for the needs of small, hungry mammals.

Turns out one of them is me.

Calf Chronicles

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