Warning: Not for the squeamish
Farm work was a game for my younger sister and I. Once we were older, and as I left home, she ended up getting more involved in the day-to-day work of the farm, and probably saw it as less of a game than I did. But we always enjoyed being out on the farm. It was an opportunity to spend time with our father, to play with the dogs, and to run freely in wide open spaces.
Lambing season was particularly fun. It generally coincided with the August school holidays. We would go out with our father on his twice daily rounds to the sheep flocks. We would check to see if there were any lambs in trouble, if there were sheep having difficulty delivering (the ones running around with little hooves sticking out of them gave a strong hint that all was not going well), or that were ill with mastitis or other illnesses. This was when our father turned into a vet and midwife. On a typical day he might help a sheep give birth – sometimes this was difficult, and he would be in up to his elbow. Or a lamb was born deformed, with no hope of survival, and the kindest action was to end its suffering. Our father hated those days. Farming can be brutal, but that does not mean farmers do not care for their animals. But most days the lamb would pop out okay, or with just a bit of gentle assistance, and within minutes the sheep would be licking it clean, and within a few more minutes, the gangly little fluff of wool would be standing, standing shakily, but standing nonetheless. We loved seeing that. I always felt that human babies were so useless, when lambs could be up and running around just minutes after their birth. And they were so impossibly cute too.
When a sheep was ill, our father would bring out his medical kit, and inject the sheep with a shot of penicillin. I was always amazed that he knew where he should inject the medicine. Years later, when I was faced with giving myself injections, I realised that all he had had to do was find some fat and jab. But it had looked so impressive when I was younger.
If there were any lambs in trouble, then Dad would bring them back to the house. Sometimes they might just be weak and ill, suffering in the unforgiving cold of late winter. Other times they might have been orphaned, or rejected by their mother. The weak and cold lambs, struggling for life, were placed in a shed close to the house, in a box on a warm dry sack, under a strong, warm light bulb, and given milk. Light truly does give life – especially to a cold weak lamb. Orphaned or rejected lambs would be kept in a small pen in the hayshed made from bales of hay. Protected from rain from the hayshed’s roof, and from the cold wind by the 18 inch thick hay bales, they were safe and warm. There were always three or four, sometimes more. When another ewe lost her lamb, she would be matched with one of the orphans, and the two would be put together in another hay-bale pen. Most times this was successful – when the ewe allowed the new lamb to suckle, the adoption had taken well. The girls loved watching this – a happy ending was always best.
The lambs that were without mothers, or were ill, would be fed a milk formula mixed up in our kitchen. As we got older, we were given full responsibility for mixing the formula, ensuring the milk was a good temperature (testing it on our wrists like mothers all over the world), and feeding the lambs before and after school. We loved the way the lambs would fall over each other to get to the bottles and rubber teats. We loved the way the lambs would suck hard on the rubber teats, breathing heavily. We loved the way their tails wagged furiously; it was as if the lambs thought the food would disappear if their tails wagged at a rate slower than light speed. And after feeding the lambs, when the girls didn’t have to rush off to catch the school bus, they would enjoy spending some time with the lambs, cuddling them, playing with them. As spring wore on, there were always a few lambs who hadn’t been adopted out. As they got older, stronger, and more familiar with us – the bringers of milk – we would let the lambs out of their pens. We’d race around the yard, giggling hilariously as the lambs chased us madly.
Eventually, when the lambs were old enough to survive on grass, they were put out to pasture with the rest of the flock, and mostly they soon forgot us, and we forgot them.
Lovely.
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My aunt and uncle have a farm, and they would occasionally have a few animals here and there…mostly it was pigs, with a few cows. They have also had a few sheep and some goats. My aunt was always irritable when the calves were “on the bottle,” because it was her responsibility to feed them before she went to work. My uncle did all the field work and then worked midnights at a meat-processing plant. Family farming, while it must be very rewarding for people to keep doing it, is a massively difficult undertaking.
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My grandparents had a farm… they mostly farmed grain & sugar beets, but they also kept cows, pigs & chickens when I was young. We were there one day when they were killing chickens. My cousins thought it was hilarious to watch the chickens run around after their heads were cut off. I couldn’t even look out the window. I stayed in the house & read a book. ; )
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I loved this. It brought back so many memories of when I was young and my parents raised sheep. My favorite baby animal to this day is a baby lamb, there is nothing more adorable.
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Oh, the heavy breathing of the sucking lamb! Only one who’d truly lived this life would have known that detail.
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Whew! When you said not for the squeamish I was expecting another level of detail… baaaaaa
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I have delicate readers!
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I loved this, I grew up near the countryside and lambs were soo cute.
I had a friend at school who had a pet lamb, was tucking into their roast and then said “Where’s Fluffy?” And then it clicked!
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I found this to be a fascinating read! So interesting. I have never spent much time on or around farms, so I love hearing about how they work. Very interesting. I remember being in New Zealand and seeing all the sheep everywhere, so this felt like an insider look.
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the furious tail wagging!! It always makes me wonder of the lambs need to wind themselves up to get the milk out….
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