Another Two Bite the Dust ... But NO!

I had barely stumbled out of bed when Phil opened the door and said, "Isabella lambed. I think one is dead, but I'm hoping it's just the afterbirth. She's licking off the other one."

Nothing like a gentle start to the workweek.

There was, indeed, a dead lamb: not even broken out of the membrane, so dead on arrival.

The other lamb‐an ewe—was alive, and even stood up. But filthy, covered in dung from the ground, mostly still wet, shivering. Isabella was off eating, not cleaning her baby.

I was so mad at Isabella! Care for your precious baby! Clean it off! Feed it! This lamb will die without food!

And death approached. I took the lamb to the little jug and cleaned if off, milked out as much colostrum as I could. Then used the rest of Annabelle's milk, with sugar and butter, to fill the lamb's tummy. The problem with feeding by drench (rather than tube to the stomach) is that the lambs choke, and get milk up their noses or into their lungs, and then they wheeze. And, I suppose, die.

After an hour, the lamb had not stood up again, and lay, exhausted, in a corner. Isabella had followed the lamb, and continued to eat. I had no more supplemental food; I had dried the baby off; there was nothing else I could do. I planned to return in an hour or two and carry off yet another body. Bringing our lambing ratio to 5 dead to 3 living (two stillbirths, one deformed at birth, and the two recent mismanagement? or birth trauma?). Ugh.

I left to sob convulsively in the orchard, until I realized that it helped nothing. Besides, I had to make breakfast.

While trying to ignore the expiring lamb, I ordered irrigation equipment. Apparently, Virginia decided to skip spring this year. We went from weather in the 30s and 40s to weather in the 80s in about three days. (This isn't even the last frost date, and we've been solidly in the 80s for a week.) No rain forecast, and I'm not watering by hand again.

Then I went to plant trees, while Phil headed to the farm equipment store for gates to make a chute and head gate for the cows. He needed to give them anti-stress medicine, and we can't just walk up to the cows and feed it to them.

While he drove, he prayed, "Lord, help that lamb live again." And then he wondered if maybe our culling plans are too brutal. We don't really know why all the sheep are having birth issues. Maybe they have too heavy a parasite load. Maybe the rams had issues. Maybe the stress of three enormous cows joining the pen made Isabella stressed and miscarry. Maybe we need more experience delivering. Maybe I needed to keep the mineral bucket filled more consistently. Maybe they need different varieties of hay. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

On his return, he built a shade structure I'll have to photograph another day, then helped me plant. We got 15 more in the ground, which felt like a major accomplishment. I think that's 257 total, but I may have lost count.

Incredibly, when I went down to make dinner, the lamb I had given up for dead yet lived! And suckled! And wobbled on her feet! I think she pulled through. And I think her name should be Miracle, because Phil got his miracle.

Phil then built a chute, which is a holding pen for animals. This leads into a headgate, a small, restricted place where people can treat animals. So he treated the three cows, while (mostly) avoiding being gored by Fern. After their treatments, I scratched their backs a bit. Their fluffy winter coat came off in my hand. I believe it: they're not in northern Vermont any more.

A very productive day, with a dead lamb at the beginning, and a living lamb at the end. Praise the Lord!