Lambing for the First Time

A ten pound chocolate colored lamb slipped into the world right before our eyes, and then brought us to our knees.  Like the day we sheared our sheep, lambing has been an event we have been anticipating from the very start, but shearing means watching a pro at work, assisting from the sidelines, enjoying the novelty from a safe, we can do no harm place. Lambing, a topic we read about over and over in the books, would have us on our own. Or so we thought.

Martha, our alpha ewe, our leader of the pack, our renegade warrior who four days after coming to our farm walked right off the property and spent five nights out in the woods with her sidekick Dolly, gave birth to our first lamb Tuesday morning while we were in the barnyard doing chores.  It was that simple. And only in hindsight did we realize that Martha never let us down. Martha never abandoned her role as mother though we sure gave her plenty of reason to walk away again.   A protruding water sac of about 3 inches made clear labor was underway and we simply stood and watched as contractions brought two hooves into view and then a squish of wet mass slid softly to the ground.

Martha begin to lick the black, gray, and bloody mass and suddenly wet fir and a rising chest confirmed there was life, but cold weather and our poor planning pulled this rush of excitement and awe out from under us. We had the supplies. We’d read the chapters. We just never rehearsed what it would really mean to be the human beings who were supposed to Do Something. The lamb was shivering, towels and a blow dryer weren’t working and we rushed her to the mudroom’s deep sink to begin to try to warm her up in a bath of warm water.

For the next eight hours we struggled with trying to warm the lamb, keep her with her mother and get calories, any calories, into this young thing.  She won’t suck. But why? We read competing chapters,  give her supplements in the mouth, bathe her again, dash to the feed store for two heat lamps, pointlessly plead with her to latch on to mom’s teat as we bring her close, squirting colostrum on our fingers and up close to mom’s teat.

We make up the artificial colostrum so vital to her survival, we read again how to tube a lamb, and with complete fear slide the thin, foot long rubber tube over her tongue, worried we’ll slip into her air passage instead of down to her stomach, squeeze the top of the rubber tube over the base of the oversized syringe loaded with two ounces of formula and press the syringe plunger down. Does it work, does it matter, did it help?  I call two women who have raised sheep for over 25 years for advice. We begin an email exchange with one of them, Louise. Words of advice. Words of encouragement. But we continue to flounder.

At 7;30pm, twelve hours after the birth, Louise arrives with some supplies.  As we walk up to the shed of a barn, the wind whipping across the driveway, Louise remarks on the weather up here and the virtues of Carhartt one-piece overalls. It’s the first time all day our minds have been taken off the lamb and the comment is so genuine and refreshing. At the barn, Louise takes one look at our lamb and says, “she’s beautiful. She’s not six pounds (we tried to weigh her in a hanging scale earlier, and thought it read “6”). That’s a 10 or 11 pound lamb and you’ve done a great job so far. Let’s see if we can’t get her on mom’s teat.” And with that, Louise moves slowly into the jug, the square section in the shed we’ve now set up with two new heat lamps, and where Martha hovers over her baby. Louise kneels alongside Martha, facing the hindquarters, lifts the lamb onto her lap, and gently puts one hand under the lamb’s chin and uses the other to guide the back of her head toward the teat. In a moment, the lamb has latched on and Louise starts to count slowly to ensure three full minutes of milking. It is pure joy.  Next we get what amounts to wonderful midwife instructions and further encouragement before Louise heads home to prepare for her own lambing.  At 10:30pm, 1:30am and 4:30am in the lone light of the heat lamps we are able to bring the lamb to mom for good long drinks from the teat. At 7:30am, thanks to the hustle and bustle of graining, watering, and haying, Martha gets distracted, the lamb gets distracted, and latching doesn’t happen. And it doesn’t happen all morning long.  At noon, I worry.  The lamb hasn’t had milk since 4:30am. A call to the Vet, and we’re back to tubing this little one with a giant 10 oz of replacement milk and artificial colostrum. The setback is demoralizing.

Exhausted and failing, we email Louise.   Her patient voice comes through with advice to give the lamb more time alone with mom and to trust that at times that is the only solution. It was a long night. We were committed to not tube again, a practice that can save a life but loaded with risk, and bringing the lamb to the teat was only met with adamant resistance by the lamb.  We stepped away and except for quick peeks through the door, we leave them alone.  Once, Todd did get her on for about a minute, nothing to match what we knew the lamb needed.

On Thursday morning, two days after her birth, we headed to the barn for morning chores. While I’m picking up poop in the barn I hear Todd say, “Score!,” as he witnesses the lamb on the teat. Lamb nursing all by herself on mom.  And mom, licking and encouraging her lamb.  Nothing to do but squeeze my eyes against the tears. Thank you, Martha.  And God bless you, Louise.  May we someday obtain such wisdom and have the opportunity to do the same for another novice sheep farmer.

Peg