94 Has 427
Posted 5/21/2008 5:42pm by Eugene Wyatt.
Part 1
Her bag was so big she could hardly walk. Her rear hooves needed trimming too, like Aladdin’s slippers the front of the hoof curled up and she had to step high to not trip herself. She was slow and easy to catch, and Thursday Dominique did catch her to trim her hooves. Her ear tag number was 94.
On Friday 94 walked better but she still hadn’t had her lamb. For several days, I’d been afraid for her, afraid she'd go down, wouldn’t be able to get up, be too weak to lamb and die in birth.
Saturday is always a day of crossed fingers, you hope the weather is with you, you hope you do well at market and you hope the sheep back home are safe. Saturday night after market we go back to the farm and transfer the unsold lamb from the coolers to the freezers. As we pulled up to the barn, Dominique grabbed the Maglite and said questioningly, “I’m going to see if 94’s OK.” It had been a long day. When I’m this tired, everything—good or bad—can wait until morning; but I don’t like to say “no” and say nothing.
I began to unload the truck as Dominique, her flashlight bobbing its yellow ray across the fields, disappeared into the dark. I waited; I knew the longer she was away the worse it was going to be. 15 minutes later I saw the yellow light bobbing back. “There’s a dead ewe—but it’s not 94—and there’s a new lamb without a mother.” I took the light, “Where’s the ewe.” We went over the fence; the ewes and lambs parted as we made our way through the flock.
I shined the light on the ewe; her eyes were dead-open; she was still supple (no rigor mortis) when I rolled her over (to see her number, 385) meaning that she had probably died that afternoon. I was relieved to find no teeth marks on her; coyotes hadn’t breached the fence. She was a healthy, young ewe. How her back was arched in death made me suspect enterotoxaemia from Clostridium Perfringins Type C commonly called “overeating disease.” Usually enterotoxaemia affects lambs, but occasionally one sees it in mature sheep.
“I’ll take care of her in the morning, where’s the lamb.” I swept the light over the sheep and found the motherless 6 lb. newborn lamb in the middle of the flock going from ewe to ewe, being butted away. Ewes only accept the lambs they've birthed; they know their own lamb by smell.
Dominique picked the lamb up, saw that it was a ram, dipped his navel in iodine, put a tag in his right ear, number 427 and spray marked his back orange to identify him from a distance. The thing to do now was to leave 427 there with the hope that his mother would find and accept him. Dominique put him down and we turned to go but 427 stumbled after us, “maa, maa…” I picked him up, carried him to a group of ewes, possible mothers, and let him go there. Looking over our shoulders to make sure he wasn’t still following us, we walked quickly to the fence and crossed it.
Sunday, we’d be there in the morning—our day off—to see if ewe and lamb got together—sheep never take a day off.
On Friday 94 walked better but she still hadn’t had her lamb. For several days, I’d been afraid for her, afraid she'd go down, wouldn’t be able to get up, be too weak to lamb and die in birth.
Saturday is always a day of crossed fingers, you hope the weather is with you, you hope you do well at market and you hope the sheep back home are safe. Saturday night after market we go back to the farm and transfer the unsold lamb from the coolers to the freezers. As we pulled up to the barn, Dominique grabbed the Maglite and said questioningly, “I’m going to see if 94’s OK.” It had been a long day. When I’m this tired, everything—good or bad—can wait until morning; but I don’t like to say “no” and say nothing.
I began to unload the truck as Dominique, her flashlight bobbing its yellow ray across the fields, disappeared into the dark. I waited; I knew the longer she was away the worse it was going to be. 15 minutes later I saw the yellow light bobbing back. “There’s a dead ewe—but it’s not 94—and there’s a new lamb without a mother.” I took the light, “Where’s the ewe.” We went over the fence; the ewes and lambs parted as we made our way through the flock.
I shined the light on the ewe; her eyes were dead-open; she was still supple (no rigor mortis) when I rolled her over (to see her number, 385) meaning that she had probably died that afternoon. I was relieved to find no teeth marks on her; coyotes hadn’t breached the fence. She was a healthy, young ewe. How her back was arched in death made me suspect enterotoxaemia from Clostridium Perfringins Type C commonly called “overeating disease.” Usually enterotoxaemia affects lambs, but occasionally one sees it in mature sheep.
“I’ll take care of her in the morning, where’s the lamb.” I swept the light over the sheep and found the motherless 6 lb. newborn lamb in the middle of the flock going from ewe to ewe, being butted away. Ewes only accept the lambs they've birthed; they know their own lamb by smell.
Dominique picked the lamb up, saw that it was a ram, dipped his navel in iodine, put a tag in his right ear, number 427 and spray marked his back orange to identify him from a distance. The thing to do now was to leave 427 there with the hope that his mother would find and accept him. Dominique put him down and we turned to go but 427 stumbled after us, “maa, maa…” I picked him up, carried him to a group of ewes, possible mothers, and let him go there. Looking over our shoulders to make sure he wasn’t still following us, we walked quickly to the fence and crossed it.
Sunday, we’d be there in the morning—our day off—to see if ewe and lamb got together—sheep never take a day off.
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