Last Saturday my teenage ewe, Butterfinger, had her first lamb. I found her in the barn pen, licking off a slippery package of skin-covered bones covered with tiny whorls of wool and placental slime. Even though she was a first-time mom, she was a good one. She attended to her lamb just as she should, licking off the sack and clearing her head and nose first, nickering to her repeatedly, and standing patiently during the lamb’s first wobbly attempts to find the faucet. After I had seen that things were going well and the lamb looked hardy and healthy, I dipped the umbilical cord in iodine, and my guests and I left them alone and walked up the old farm road to visit the rest of the flock grazing in the breeze at the top of the hill.
When we came down the lamb seemed a bit weak; she’d stand up to nurse and then lie down before getting any milk. It was sunny and warm, and because young animals don’t thermoregulate well, I wondered if she was getting overheated. So I picked her up and and moved her and mom into the shade inside the barn. My guests and I went into the house, and I didn’t get back to check on her for over an hour. When I did, I found the lamb dead, sprawled on the ground beside her mother, who was still nickering and nudging in a futile attempt to rouse her newborn.
It’s hard to articulate what it’s like to walk into the barn and find that one of your sheep is dead. It’s a shock of course, but there is so much more that I struggle to translate. It was alive, and now it’s dead, and “dead” is just too damn final to deal with when it comes out of the blue. “Wait!” I want to say… roll back the clock a minute and I’ll come to the barn sooner and do something to save the lamb and then this won’t have happened and the little life that spent five months growing inside Butterfinger will still be here…. If only, If only, If only.
But that way lies madness, and I know it. I’ve raised sheep now for over 20 years, along with ducks and dogs. I’ve been a zoologist for just as long, and have thus seen numerous animals dead or dying and in all states in between. And although I felt sick for the rest of the day, I also realized that is this is why I love my farm so much. I imagine that sounds strange, at best, and at worst, an indication that I have indeed gone mad — “I love raising animals because they die” is not an easy line to explain. Bear with me.
It is easy to be disconnected from “life” in our culture. I mean “life” in the sense of “life on earth,” or the complicated all- encompassing web of soil and worms and birds and pollen and dogs and pine trees and streams and flowers that surrounds us whether we focus on it or not. And after living in the country and raising animals, I know now at some primal, atavistic level that you can’t separate out “life” and “death.” They are part and parcel of the same thing, two sides to the coin, the night that defines the day. And as hard as it often is, there’s something about this awareness, this being forced to deal with the shock of a dead newborn lamb along with the joy of watching healthy ones frolic, that gives me comfort. It helps me to feel centered, with the earth holding me up and the land surrounding me, with something bigger and better than my own little life.
And this is also part of why I love dogs so much. What better animal to keep us connected with other species, other realities, the joys and sorrows of biology? Here’s how I expressed that in The Other End of the Leash: “We humans are in such a strange position–we are still animals whose behavior reflects that of our ancestors, yet we are unique–unlike any other animal on earth. Our distinctiveness separates us and makes it easy to forget where we come from. Perhaps dogs help us remember the depth of our roots, reminding us–the animals at the other end of the leash–that we may be special, but we are not alone. No wonder we call them our best friends.”
Last week I spent many hours trying to save my perennial flowers from the inevitable hard freezes we all knew would come after the unseasonable warmth caused them to grow as if it was May instead of March. One evening, as I piled on mulch and covered plants with old towels, I groused in anger about having to spend my time doing this, when what I really wanted to do was “garden.” And then I began laughing at myself, because how else would you define what I was doing, except by calling it gardening? Of course I was gardening, but the weather and the plants got to define what that meant, rather than me. Gardens, and dogs, and the sheep in the barn have their own agendas. We are wise to understand where each of us, just one little life on earth, fits in. Sometimes we get to write the agenda, or direct the traffic. Sometimes we are merely along for the ride. It’s good to remember that, no matter where you live.
This is Butterfinger and the lamb that died a bit later. Butterfinger is doing well, by the way, she called for her lamb for about two days and now is quiet. She stays close to her mother and her sister, Oreo, who has a two-week old, healthy lamb. I’m afraid I am going to have to change her name: although I’m not giving her any supplemental food, Butterfinger is downright fat. After a few more days of sympathy, I’m going to start calling her Butterfat. (And by the way, just in case you’re not used to seeing them, newborn lambs come out little more than bones and skin, so this little lamb looked perfectly normal compared to the rest.)
Here’s her sister Oreo and her black and white lamb. The other 3 lambs are solid white (2) or black (1), it’s just this one who is replicating a Border Collie. We’re still waiting on Spot and Rosebud, who must not have been bred the first time they mated with King Charles. He was a young ram and I suspect his sperm just wasn’t up to it. Ewes cycle every 17 days, so we’re hoping for some more lambs this weekend.
MEANWHILE, back in 2019: We are just back from a heavenly vacation on Walloon Lake, Michigan, staying at a friend’s house nestled among pines and hemlocks, with a background of sparkling, blue water.
Took the S.S. Badger Ferry from Manitowoc, WI to Luddington, MI, a wonderful way to feel like you’re entering another world (somewhere around 1950 or so):
Had fun with the camera and their numerous bird feeders:
Strolled around Charlevoix, enjoyed the jetty and draw bridge, bought cherries, fudge, chocolate covered potato chips (yeah, really, they are amazing). Total tourist. Loved it.
Played cards, did a jigaw puzzle, visited good friends with their new property north of Harbor Springs, and ate and ate and ate. Thank you D and J for a perfect vacation!
(I’m sorry Maggie, and yes, we’ll work sheep as soon as I click on “publish,” honest. Even though it’s pouring rain.)
Sally says
Butterfinger’s lamb was gorgeous. I know exactly the feeling of finding a dead animal who looked perfect just a few short moments earlier, and the examination of conscience that follows. I can still remember finding my dearly loved Runty, my first bottle lamb grown into a beautiful ewe. She had recently lambed, a single ram lamb, her fourth lambing, her first single. The Runt-girl and her boy were in fine fettle when I left the flock in pasture. When I returned a couple of hours later, my girl was dead. It was devastating. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t find a reason. I had a necropsy done, and the vet came back with “her heart just stopped.” Farming is a humbling way of life.
Helena says
Loved this post, both the repost from 2012 and the brief recap of your vacation. I wrote a poem once centered on ‘can death be life’s only nurse’…so complicated, but you have hit the nail on the head.
Thank you.
Cathy Balliu says
Sometimes the saying “sheep are born looking for a place to die” is just true. You do what you can and hope for the best. I can remember spending hours in the the barn with newborn lambs: trying to get them to stand, the nurse, to have the will to thrive. It’s out of our hands but it doesn’t keep us from the sadness when our efforts fail. No wonder there is so much suicide in farmers – so many things out of your control. It sure isn’t the easy way of life.But it sounds like you found the perfect way to recharge and enjoy the simple pleasures of just living without the life or death surround.
Vicky says
Thank you for your blog and description of deals and ordeals with sheep on your farm which touched my heart. Kandy, Jill and I also enjoyed vacay on the lake Michigan beach with Kandy totally absorbed in chasing anything that flies from seagulls to butterflies to dragonflies while Jill stalked Kandy. A strange looking threesome to anyone visiting from Chicago, not used to seeing how focused Border Collies are anything that moves while running on the beach.
Gayla says
No comment on the cycle of life, the flip side of the coin…because I
couldn’t say anything more eloquently than you already have.
I love the way you write.
Becky Garbarino says
I have no words for this beautiful post other than “Thank you.” So much emotion and truth in those words. It truly touched a spot deep in my soul….one that needed touching.
Rebecca Rice says
Thank you for this post! I do have a bit of a “farming” question for you. I’ve enjoyed reading about the sheepdog trials, and watching them when I can find them on videos. Watching the dogs respond so well to commands given by someone so far away is amazing! But I’ve gotten to wondering… in “normal” farm life, is there that level of interaction with the dogs/sheep, or is it more of a routine? In other words, does the dog learn “my master is standing over in that field there, and wants me to bring the sheep to him, and the best way to do that, based on the many many times I’ve done it before, is to take them to the third gate there, around that clump of trees, and then straight up”, or does the farmer still have to direct that every time? I’m also thinking of the pictures of cows walking themselves to the barn to be milked, so just wondering how much of this becomes routine habit on a farm versus a sport to be practiced and highly interactive.
Trisha says
Great question Rebecca, re how much of farm work is routine, how much is not. It’s a mix–for example, at our farm, there is only one good way to move the sheep from the barn up to the pasture on top of the hill. There’s a farm road that goes along the left side, and steep woods on the right side. Maggie learned years ago that the sheep want to go into the woods, while I want them to walk along the road. I don’t have to give her any cues; she drives them up the road not by walking directly behind them, but by staying to their right, at about 4 o’clock on a clock face. If she didn’t they’d swerve right into the woods rather than walk up the road to the gate that leads to the main pasture. She knows where I want them and what she has to do to keep them doing it without any input from me. However, there are a lot of times that she simply has to listen to me. She doesn’t know which pasture I want to move them into once up the hill. She doesn’t know if I want to move the sheep through the sorting gate or out the main gate. Etc, etc. And for trialing, she absolutely has to learn that I know the course better than she does. (And yet… exceptions here too! Every handler will tell you about the times that an experienced dog paused after hearing a command–because it was going to mess things up and the dog knew it.) It’s a wonderful mix of things, all demanding a lot of respect between dog and human. Lordy I love it!
Gwyn says
I so appreciate that reminder that “that way lies madness”. I lost my dog unexpectedly shortly after you lost Willie, and have appreciated your reflections on that loss. I know I still get caught in that second-guessing of what I might’ve done differently to change the outcome — even though intellectually I know that there was nothing more I could have done.
But she was my first dog that was “mine” (as an adult), and I felt such a deep responsibility to her. I still feel like somehow I failed her. But death is part of life, and being there through the end is part of the deal we make when we bring a dog into our life and family.
I love your writing; thank you so much for sharing your words and way of looking at the world.
LisaW says
The innate knowledge of when something is done as it was meant to be must reside in dogs, too. That deep feeling when you craft a sentence just write or lay down paint with the exact weight and placement of the brush or the pot that has the perfect balance of handle and mug. Or knowing when the sheep need to be driven on the right up the hill. It’s an actual physical sensation that may help explain how dogs know what they know and are so good at what they do. It’s a feeling that can’t be taught. It’s like umami of the heart.
Trisha says
“. . .umami of the heart”. I’m going to float all day on that perfect phrase, as an example of “something done as it was meant to be..”. Gorgeous.
Shari says
Thank you for this. I had been feeling especially battered lately by the news of the day…week…month…year, and my soul was in need of some soothing balm, which you provided. Don’t ever underestimate the comfort and clarity you provide!
Chris from Boise says
I too really appreciated this heart-filling “re-run”. And a well-earned vacation to boot!
Laura Davis says
Patricia,
I am so pleased to have found your name and book, reading your book has really helped me to understand my rescue dog Mocha. A little off topic, Mocha is a 3 year old Akita/Shepard, she was recently hit by a car because she was chasing a rabbit. She is a good dog, but she always wants to hunt any small creature including bugs. I dont know how to help her overcome her desire to constantly hunt and fear if I dont she will be harmed. I was hoping you could help me.