As a farmer’s daughter my life has been full of animals. Joey arrived soon after my brother’s sudden death when I was just 18. We were all reeling with grief. Then this tiny twin calf arrived, born to one of my brother’s favourite cows. His twin died almost immediately, but I rebelled against the pragmatic advice of the farm manager to let this one slip away too.

I hand-milked his mother and fed him myself, and took him home to my little cottage where I could watch him whenever I wasn’t at work on the farm, learning the trade. He took up residence there alongside my lurcher puppy, Gail, who accepted him without fuss. It was an unlikely trio – a grieving girl, a dog and a calf – finding our way through the fog of loss together.

The first days were touch and go. His lungs were immature, and he wheezed like a 60-a-day smoker. He couldn’t stand. He slept by the stove, and could only drink tiny quantities at a time. But very slowly, Joey made progress. Finally, he could stand, and started to negotiate the slippery lino floor, like Bambi on ice. His coat began to shine. As his appetite increased, he started to call for food, though I liked to think it was for me.

With strength came character. He wasn’t sure whether he was a human or a dog, having imprinted on both me and Gail, so he followed us both about relentlessly. It was disconcerting trying to have a pee or a bath with a calf blaring to join you. Luckily, he never managed to navigate the stairs.

When the trial of clearing up after him became too much – he never got the hang of toilet training – he moved to the garden shed, for nights at least, but still insisted on coming inside for a while each evening. Finally, he was strong enough to join me and Gail for short walks around the fields.

I’m not sure why, at a time of grief, it was so helpful for me to care for Joey and Gail. Perhaps being needed and having the routines of feeding and walking prevented me from falling into numb inertia when I got back from work. Whatever the psychology of it, I loved that little, stunted calf.

There’s no happy ending. At a year old, Joey was still no larger than a normal newborn and intermittently very unwell, to the point that euthanasia was the kindest option. I like to think he had a stimulating and enjoyable life while it lasted. He was such an important part of my own recovery. He showed me that it was still possible to feel hope in the future. That life is worth the fight, even when the odds are stacked against you.

The Boys’ Team by Helen Browning is available from helenbrowningsorganic.co.uk or amazon.co.uk