The Grim Reaper

 

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This blog is dedicated to David Dines, agricultural lecturer at Kingston Maurward College. David kindly and patiently taught Bridget and Dominic about raising sheep, and his generosity with his vast knowledge has been both a comfort and an example to us.

That morning we saw one of the ewes give birth on the lambing shed’s camera system. This ‘lamb-cam’ has been a real boon – our house is separated from the farm, and being able to monitor things from home via an internet link has made this Spring’s lambing much easier.

It was Saturday, and with four excited children we drove up in the Land-rover. The ewe was doing well, having given birth to a fine ewe lamb. As I dressed the lamb’s navel with Iodine, Bridget checked the ewe’s udders. By squirting a few drops from each udder by hand, we can help prevent problems with mastitis, and be sure that there is colostrum available for the new lamb.

We fenced the ewe and lamb off from the others in the pen with temporary hurdles. This lets them both settle down for a couple of hours before moving to their own bonding pen, and helps us to keep a close eye on the mother in case a second lamb appears. This can be some time after the first birth, but usually the ewe gives some warning – she starts straining or lies down in that characteristic way they do before giving birth.

On this occasion she passed her afterbirth without apparent effort. Bridget checked it and called out in surprise – it was not the expected afterbirth but a second lamb. I ran over. It was the smallest ewe lamb that either of us had seen, no bigger than my hand.

Bridget and I looked at each other. Even using all the tricks we knew, survival for this lamb was a very slim prospect. But the children were already there, hanging expectantly over the side of the pen, demanding to see the new lamb. I showed them as I dressed her navel, and Bridget gently explained that the lamb was so small that she might not survive the day.

“You’ve saved small ones before…” said Max, our 12 year old, but his voice trailed off.

She was so very small. Felix and Gus looked and said nothing. The silence was broken by Sacha, our 7 year old daughter:

“We’re going to call her Tiny”.

My heart sank. The lamb had next to no chance, and in any case naming animals on the farm is usually avoided. Of course we are their custodians, and we want to look after them well, but in the end we run a farm. Our business is turning grass into lamb and wool, not running a petting zoo.

I tried to dissuade Sacha from naming it. She listened to me, and then patiently repeated, as though speaking to an obtuse child:

“We are calling her Tiny”.

The name had already caught the imagination of the other children, so Tiny it was.

I rubbed the lamb dry while Bridget gently milked the ewe and drew off 100 ml of colostrum. This life-giving first milk contains all the anti-bodies Tiny would desperately need to fight off infection. She was far too small to feed by bottle, so I would have to stomach tube her.

The stomach tube has probably saved more lambs than any other single piece of kit in the lambing shed. It is a thin, soft tube that is slid down the back of the lamb’s throat into the stomach and then attached to a large syringe. The colostrum is then poured into the open syringe, and fed into the lamb’s stomach by gravity. It quickly gets a precise amount of colostrum to exactly where it is needed, usually with the minimum of fuss.

I put Tiny over my leg and, with the children anxiously watching, slid the tube into her mouth. It would not go down. I tried again, still no luck. By the 10th attempt, I was stressed and the children and Tiny were becoming increasingly restless. I tried again, carefully aiming the tube upwards so that it would slide down the throat, not the windpipe. Tiny struggled for a second, and then the tube slid easily down into her stomach. I wiped away the sweat from my eyes and attached the syringe full of colostrum.

The children watched anxiously as the colostrum slowly seeped into her stomach. After she had taken 50 ml, Bridget wrapped her in a towel and we took her home, putting her in a box in front of the fire to keep her warm.

The children mounted a vigil over her and remained deaf to our warnings that she was not likely to live. After 3 hours we gave her another 50 ml of colostrum, again after a dozen attempts to get the tube down into her stomach. Tiny was so small that any slight misalignment in the tube meant that it entered her lungs rather than her stomach. Every feed was going to prove difficult.

We milked her ewe again so that we would have enough to feed Tiny every 3 hours. Sacha stayed with Tiny almost constantly, stroking her head and talking to her. Contact is important for a young lamb, and by the evening Tiny could at least lift her head to Sacha’s touch. It was progress, but not much.

By the midnight feed, Tiny was looking no better, and at 3 am, slightly worse. I fed her again at 6 am, but knew then, as I sat by the fire, that she would not survive the morning. She was listless and unable to raise her head any more. I dreaded having to break it to Sacha.

I glanced up from the lamb to find Sacha standing in front of me in her pyjamas. She looked at me.

“I’m afraid that she is not going to make it, Sacha” I said.

Sacha nodded, dry eyed and brave.

“She’s just too small, you see?” I continued softly.”We’ve tried for her. She’s been kept warm, kept fed and you‘ve given her company, but she’s too small to live. She won’t make it to lunch time.”

Sacha looked me squarely in the eyes and replied:

“’SHE’ is called Tiny”, and she carefully stroked Tiny’s head.

I checked the lambing shed that morning with sickness in my heart. I wished then that the children had not seen the birth of this second lamb, that we had shielded them from it. Sacha is only just 7, and she was not ready for what was coming that morning – Tiny was going to meet the Grim Reaper.

Tiny died in front of the fire that morning at 11 o’clock. Bridget called Sacha over and broke it to her as gently as a parent can. Bridget took the box with Tiny’s body in it and placed it in the downstairs lavatory, telling Sacha that I would take it away when I got back. Bridget then told me the news over the farm VHF radio, adding that Sacha had said nothing and gone off to her bedroom. I felt how miserable Sacha must be, and wished again that I could turn back the clock.

Later on, as I picked up the box from the house, I saw a note had been carefully laid next to Tiny’s body. It was a handmade card, on pink paper. I opened it and read, in a carefully printed child’s hand:

‘To Tiny, I hoped that you wouldn’t die, but you did. Love from Sacha.’

I stood there for a long time holding that card. The gentleness of a child had suddenly diminished the Grim Reaper’s power. I knew that he would visit again – that’s farming – but, as I held that card, I also knew that his visits would never be quite the same again.

 

The Visitors

 

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This blog is dedicated to all of our wonderful family and friends who visit us on the farm.

We are blessed with good friends from around the world, and visitors are always anticipated keenly by the children. Our friend Maddalena had arrived, a woman who was used to the warmer climes of the Far East, and our wood burning stove was running low on firewood. All of our wood comes from managing the woodland on the farm – and early that morning I took our youngest, Felix, who had just turned 4, to get some more from the woodpile.

As we passed the lambing shed, I heard the calling of the ewes who had been recently run up from ‘in-by’ pasture. We bring the ewes in for lambing so that their lambs are less susceptible to the cold and the fox, and the long hours spent lambing are bearable for the shepherd. I had not yet checked the ewes that morning – it is normally the first job before breakfast, but visitors come first.

As I loaded the split logs into the Land-rover, Felix left to check the ewes. Felix is one of Nature’s farmers – always worried about the livestock, and a boy who would rather be outside with the animals than anywhere else. Within three minutes he was back, shouting with excitement that there were lambs in the shed.

I’m used to this. We were over two weeks away from lambing and, to a four year old, a lamb and a hogget can be interchangeable terms. I realised that he was talking about the ewe hoggets who were in lamb, so said something soothing about getting our house warm for the visitors and carried on loading logs. Felix went back to the lambing shed in apparent disgust.

As I finished loading, he returned and said, firmly, “You really MUST come and see the lambs”. I sighed, took his hand, and walked with him over to the shed. A quick look over the hurdles should do it, and we could be on our way.

I opened the gate and was confronted by a nervous looking ewe in the lambing pen along with some more visitors – brand new twin lambs.  Swearing under my breath I vaulted over the hurdles and quickly ran my hands over them. They had been born within the last 2 hours, both ewe lambs, and badly premature. I needed to dress their navels with Iodine and get jackets on them to keep them warm. I also needed to get them into a separate pen with their ewe to get them some peace and quiet away from the other ewes. And I needed to do it fast.

I looked up to see that Felix was already standing there with the crash box. We keep one next to the lambing pen, with all the emergency supplies you need for an unexpected lambing. 10% iodine was always kept in the crash box for treating the navels.

I thanked Felix, who merely muttered “I told you that you needed to see the lambs” before moving off to run his eye over the other ewes. I applied the Iodine on the navels, built a temporary pen out of spare hurdles and then gently encouraged the ewe to follow them into it. I checked the lamb’s temperatures – a little over 39 degrees centigrade, a good temperature considering the start they had had, and fitted them up with jackets to keep them warm. I filled the hay rack and left half a bucket of water for the ewe, knowing that she would be hungry and thirsty now that labour was over.

I left the shed with Felix, and we climbed into the Land-rover to drive the wood home. I thanked him for telling me about the lambs and made a mental not to listen more closely to Nature’s farmers next time. As I started the Land-rover, I felt a huge grin spreading over my face. Spring lambing had started with twin ewe lambs. More visitors. Life was good.

I looked over at Felix. He was grinning too.

The Sentinel

Shepherd DominicThis blog is dedicated to Terry Girling , a really good, practical and common sense vet.

This time of year, always our busiest, is the most special. There is an air of expectancy in the lambing shed. The shepherds know that new life is coming, and even the young ewe hoggets, who have never seen this before, realize that something big is happening. Their bodies have changed, and they prefer to lie and chew the cud rather than gambol around like the young lambs they were only a year ago. Continue reading