A lamb’s tail

Among our tasks during a recent stay on a little farm in Oregon was keeping an eye on some sheep. It was lambing season, and the experts were going to be out of town.

Over the course of the week three lambs were born, one the first night, then twins a few days later. That’s when my worries started: the smallest of the twins wasn’t able to stand, and her mum did not seem inclined to bring the milk down to her level.

The left hind leg concerned us most, but the rest of her didn’t look that good either.

I remember being told when I was quite young that you don’t touch wild animal babies, as your hands might leave traces of human scent that could frighten their mothers into leaving them. This ewe is used to interacting with humans, but when newborns are concerned, there are no guarantees. As I stood in the near-freezing morning air watching the wee lamb trying and failing to scramble awkwardly to her feet, I was thinking about the “don’t touch the babies” warning. It seemed likely, though, that if I did nothing, the lamb would not get anything to eat. On balance, I figured the risk that the ewe would object was smaller than the risk that the lamb would weaken and eventually die without some help.

So I lifted the little one around her skinny middle and held her up under her mum long enough for her to latch on and feed briefly. I was under no illusions that I could solve this problem easily, but I did think that getting a little milk inside her would help the lamb with both calories and antibodies, and provide some motivation to try to repeat the experience. (My ignorance and inexperience didn’t prevent me from being hopeful, as you can see.)

 

I wonder if sitting in Mum’s dinner bowl makes a nice change from sitting in straw.

 

Clover and her limp little one

Over the course of several hours I helped a few more times with standing practice. The lamb made it through that first cold night, and the next day was able to stand unaided for short periods of time. By the following day she looked stronger still, and soon enough she joined her twin in a bit of tentative frisking about. They looked like they were getting the hang of mortality.

El Guapo and the smallest lamb, much improved

 

The oldest of the lambs born that week

Up to this point, I’ve been giving you a lamb’s tale, but I wanted also to comment on a lamb’s little tail, covered in wisps of curly wool. I have in the past heard the expression, “three shakes of a lamb’s tail,”* but it conjured no concrete image for me. That has definitely changed. I can now give eyewitness testimony regarding the amazing speed of a lamb’s tail. It is not quite the blurred movement of a hummingbird’s wing, but it is the epitome of speedy.

One of the rams, possibly papa to one or more lambs

 

Overall, our week included many elements: relaxation, worry, suspense, a great deal of rain, a bit of hail, some frolicking and rapid tail movement, and a certain amount of dignity, supplied by a member of the cast I have not yet mentioned. The farm now has a guard llama, a stately creature named Sollaman,† which I take to be a combination of Solomon and llama. He was willing for us to approach quite close, but generally wanted to maintain his personal space when it came to actual contact. On our last day there, he was willing to be petted, which turned out to be an experience like stroking a cloud.

Sollaman might have been offering me advice.

 

 

*I believe that “two shakes of a lamb’s tail” is more common in the US, but as my father lived for a time in England and Ireland as a young man, I always heard it as “three shakes.” It’s just possible that you may also have heard the phrase, “three shakes of a dead lamb’s tail.” As dead lambs were precisely what we were striving to avoid if at all possible, I’m sticking with the shake (of whatever number) of the tails of little lambs who are alive and kicking.

†Scott, the expert who was out of town, told us that he considered the name Barak Ollama, but it didn’t stick.