Post by Selden on Apr 19, 2007 9:14:08 GMT -5
Well, I've been having broken nights recently due to family issues, so I've been in something of a depressed stupor. The recent foot of new snow hasn't helped. But to wake up before dawn and see from the sky that we'd have a sunshiney day was SO UPLIFTING after what feels like months of gloomy skies!
So I was cheerful, though tired, at barn chores. I mucked, turned out all the animals, filled the water trough, put out hay in the snow, and was just about to leave when my brain registered slowly that one of my sheep was missing. Normally when I open the door of the sheep stall they all bound out en masse, jostling greedily and practically knocking me down in their haste to get to breakfast. However, something made me notice that today there were only four, not five. One was nowhere to be seen.
Now, sheep are intense flock animals and a "lost sheep" is by definition an anamoly, and usually frantic. Oh my goodness, what could be wrong? I went back to the sheep stall and there was Ermintrude (named by her former owner, a 7-year-old). She was pawing the straw and curling her lip in distress. Uh oh. Could it be? Yup, she was in hard labor.
I've told people over and over that I'd have no lambs this spring because my ram, Sylvester (Stallone; Rambo), had been only five months old at breeding season, and half the size of the ewes. However, it appears that where there's a will, there's a way! Go, Sly! There was definitely a lamb struggling to be born, and stuck.
I knelt in the straw and had a quick feel inside the distressed sheep. A gigantic head blocking the way. From the size I was guessing a ram lamb, and a singleton. I managed to fish his front legs out. As I'm sure many know, newborn lamb legs feel as fragile as hollow reeds, and are incredibly slippery. With one hand I kept hold of those slippery reeds and with the other I struggled to slip the head out from under the pelvic bone. I could only see a nose, with a tongue sticking out. The tongue was black. Oh dear, was the lamb dead already? Had the ewe been struggling too long?
Whatever -- of course if the lamb wasn't born the ewe would die. In the end I hooked a finger around the head, held both of the lambs front legs and PUSHED with my booted feet against the ewe's bottom, and finally (as the ewe baa-ed piteously) a big black ram lamb slid out in a gush of fluid. I cleared the placenta wrapping the nose and hooray, he snorted and started breathing! YAHOO. His tongue was merely black because he's entirely black.
I had coveralls on so I slipped off the old t-shirt that I was wearing underneath and used it to dry off the lamb. He's perfectly healthy and enormous. Before I left the barn he was standing and nursing and waggling his long tail with delight. There is nothing as heartwarming as a baby lamb covered with tiny curls.
I know you'll think I'm stupid not to have even noticed that my ewe was pregnant, but to be honest I didn't think it was a possibility, so I hadn't had the girls sheared early this spring. Under all the wool, a developing udder is invisible. (In fact, after the birth I had to bribe the ewe with sweet feed to stand still while I cut huge wads off her fleece so the lamb would be able to find the teat). Tonight I'll check the other two mature ewes.
It is also what would have been my dad's 91st birthday. So altogether a happy, happy morning. And luckily I didn't have a first period class! LOL.
So I was cheerful, though tired, at barn chores. I mucked, turned out all the animals, filled the water trough, put out hay in the snow, and was just about to leave when my brain registered slowly that one of my sheep was missing. Normally when I open the door of the sheep stall they all bound out en masse, jostling greedily and practically knocking me down in their haste to get to breakfast. However, something made me notice that today there were only four, not five. One was nowhere to be seen.
Now, sheep are intense flock animals and a "lost sheep" is by definition an anamoly, and usually frantic. Oh my goodness, what could be wrong? I went back to the sheep stall and there was Ermintrude (named by her former owner, a 7-year-old). She was pawing the straw and curling her lip in distress. Uh oh. Could it be? Yup, she was in hard labor.
I've told people over and over that I'd have no lambs this spring because my ram, Sylvester (Stallone; Rambo), had been only five months old at breeding season, and half the size of the ewes. However, it appears that where there's a will, there's a way! Go, Sly! There was definitely a lamb struggling to be born, and stuck.
I knelt in the straw and had a quick feel inside the distressed sheep. A gigantic head blocking the way. From the size I was guessing a ram lamb, and a singleton. I managed to fish his front legs out. As I'm sure many know, newborn lamb legs feel as fragile as hollow reeds, and are incredibly slippery. With one hand I kept hold of those slippery reeds and with the other I struggled to slip the head out from under the pelvic bone. I could only see a nose, with a tongue sticking out. The tongue was black. Oh dear, was the lamb dead already? Had the ewe been struggling too long?
Whatever -- of course if the lamb wasn't born the ewe would die. In the end I hooked a finger around the head, held both of the lambs front legs and PUSHED with my booted feet against the ewe's bottom, and finally (as the ewe baa-ed piteously) a big black ram lamb slid out in a gush of fluid. I cleared the placenta wrapping the nose and hooray, he snorted and started breathing! YAHOO. His tongue was merely black because he's entirely black.
I had coveralls on so I slipped off the old t-shirt that I was wearing underneath and used it to dry off the lamb. He's perfectly healthy and enormous. Before I left the barn he was standing and nursing and waggling his long tail with delight. There is nothing as heartwarming as a baby lamb covered with tiny curls.
I know you'll think I'm stupid not to have even noticed that my ewe was pregnant, but to be honest I didn't think it was a possibility, so I hadn't had the girls sheared early this spring. Under all the wool, a developing udder is invisible. (In fact, after the birth I had to bribe the ewe with sweet feed to stand still while I cut huge wads off her fleece so the lamb would be able to find the teat). Tonight I'll check the other two mature ewes.
It is also what would have been my dad's 91st birthday. So altogether a happy, happy morning. And luckily I didn't have a first period class! LOL.