Two Lambs

Two Lambs

It was the damndest image I ever saw. As I was dividing the bails into sections and tossing them into the feeders, I saw a ewe standing apart from the other sheep with a miniature head and two tiny hooves sticking out just below the stub of her tail. The ewe craned her neck around and licked the lamb's face. Suddenly, the lamb let a small "baaah" escape its mouth. The mother immediately answered with her own along with some grunts and pants as she tried to expel the lamb.

Oh hell, I thought. Here we go. Dad mentioned that a few ewes might lamb before he returned home.

Why does he always have to be gone when something like this happens? It was not the first time I saw a lamb born. This was our fifth year on the farm, so I was acclimated to the spectacle, though I could never view it the way Dad did. He would sit and brood over the ewes, often times having to stick his hand, and whole arm, up there and turn the lamb or help pull it out. It was the grossest thing I ever witnessed. Even though I owned my fair share of sheep, from which my allowance was derived, there was no way I was about to stick my hand anywhere near there, let alone up there. I even saw him once revive a lamb with mouth to mouth. I cringed at just having to carry them from the feed lot to a pen when they were still slimy with afterbirth and squirming to stand. I would not even touch one until I secured a pair of gloves. Then when I safely had the lamb or lambs and the ewe penned up, I dashed to the house to scrub down like a surgeon.

This lamb was no different. It was covered in a thin membrane of slime and blood. I returned to finish feeding the rest of the herd.

When I was done I walked over to the ewe, who had distanced herself off to a secluded corner of the feed lot. Two lambs lay in a steaming heap on the frozen straw and manure. Even though this sight always disgusted me, I suddenly felt like the their lives belonged to me. The mother tried to maneuver herself between me and her lambs. I always marveled at how protective they were of their young. After all, sheep, especially ewes, are about the most defenseless animals on the planet. They are not blessed with speed, claws, armor (well maybe a few horns, but nothing to inflict any real damage or ward off a wolf), and intelligence (this is after all an animal that, if allowed to, will graze in an alfalfa field until the gasses in their stomach expand quicker than they can expel them and cause them to literally swell and bloat to death). I gently pushed her out of the way, though she tried to steer me away from her young with her head. She bellowed and one of the lambs responded. That was when I knew something was wrong. Looking back at the ewe, I was almost sure she was a yearling. They usually only have one lamb, since they are only one year removed from being lambs themselves. Ewes after their second year traditionally have two to three lambs.

This was trouble. She had two lambs. She was licking the afterbirth from one lamb who was already struggling to bleat and stand, only to stumble to one minute knee, tremble for a split second and crash down to the ground. Its legs seemed to be too long and thin for its slight body. The other lamb lay in a small, slimy puddle.

It neither tried to stand nor bleat.

This lamb couldn't die. Even in the slime and blood and filth, I was linked to it. Forgetting everything else, I reverted to my dad. I tore my gloves off and felt the lamb's soft slippery wool for a heart beat. I could barely see its rib cage rise and fall. I wiped the ooze from its face. One eye lid fluttered. I grabbed some straw and stuffed individual straws up its nose. The lamb shook its head in defiance.

I messaged its chest and watched the mother cradle and nuzzle the other lamb. I knew exactly what happened. Somewhere in her instinctive circuiting, the ewe knew she could only care for one lamb. She chose the strongest and left the other to die. This happened often when they had lambs off on their own and Dad couldn't care for them. I carried their carcasses many times out to the dump. They seemed so slight, like they had never lived at all. In a few months they were just be a few opaque bones scattered among the rocks.

At the moment, this lamb was everything to me. I caressed its rib cage, trying to encourage its tiny heart. I could feel it struggling in there. While its mother's instinct left it for dead, the lamb's own instinct fought to survive.

I opened the lamb's right eye lid. A dark, live eye stared at me. It was nothing like the murky and clouded eyes of those failed lambs I carried to the dump. The eye lid leaped from my fingers and blinked. Still the lamb made no sound. I continued sticking straw up its nose. I knew no reason for this other than I had witnessed Dad do it. I pried my fingers inside the lamb's mouth. It was slippery with slime. I parted the lips and felt tiny shards of teeth. The pink tongue quivered.

Finally, not knowing what else to do, I bent down and pressed my lips to the lamb's and gently gave the lamb its first breath. Nothing. I breathed for it again. It stirred. Another breath. Another breath. Yet another. Finally, it coughed for the first time. Then it inhaled for itself. Suddenly, as the seconds passed and I watched, I saw life erupting. The lamb was electrified. It coughed again. A shrill bleat echoed from its throat, its first sound. Its eyes flickered open, then stayed, its first vision. It sounded again. It floundered in the filth as I held it. Its heart was flexing its dainty rib cage. These would not be among the rocks. It moved its legs, its first steps. Its brain taking in images and scents and tastes and information for the first time. It kicked as if it wanted to run, though it was lying on its side. Lambs had to move quickly after birth or face death. This one wanted life.

I kept my hands on it, holding it down. Try as I might I couldn't let go. It was like finding God's pulse. Here was the secret to everything. New life. Striving to survive, to exist. I squeezed harder to feel the raging heart, imagining the fresh blood, exposed to oxygen from its own lungs, inhaled from its own nostrils for the first time. The umbilical cord, which in hours would be a red shriveled stub, oozed from its tummy. Free new life was coursing through my fingers, into my lungs, and into my blood. For the first time in my life, I had an understanding of why Dad devoted so much time to tending his flock.

I picked the lamb up, not cradling him, not babying it. Just reveling in its vitality. Something that had seemed lost was now alive and battling for more. I carried it toward the barn as it called for its mother and its legs ran in opposite directions. I glanced back at the mother. She seemed confused. She looked back at her first lamb then her second lamb in my hands.

I set my lamb down in a pen. Finally, I tore myself free. God's pulse faded and left my fingertips numb. I plugged in the heat lamp bathing the shivering lamb in 80 degree heat.

I returned to the lot to grab the other lamb. The ewe still was caught halfway between the two lambs. I passed by her and came upon the first lamb. This one seemed pitiful to me now. Even though it was larger than the second lamb, it seemed so much weaker. It just looked at me as I approached. I could, like any wolf or fox, grab it and rip its throat and pour its virgin blood down my throat. Without its mother, it was defenseless. Would it have fought for survival like the other?

I cradled it in my arms and carried it to the pen. The mother now followed and called for her lamb. When I dropped it in there, the second lamb was up on two front knees while the back legs twitched and struggled to acquaint themselves with gravity, still seeking to survive.

I grabbed a faded Bridgeman's ice cream bucket hanging on the wall. Then I grabbed an old green 7UP glass. I fished around in a cabinet for a black, rubber nipple. I set the ice cream bucket beneath the ewe. She continued to tend to her lamb. I grabbed hold of one of her swollen teats, as I had seen my father do, and awkwardly began to milk her. The warm, thick milk began to fill the bucket in slow steaming jets. She stomped at my intrusion. I let her calm down and focus again on her lamb. Then I continued to milk her.

Once the ice cream bucket had an inch of milk in it, I poured it into the 7UP bottle and fitted the nipple onto it. The ewe had nudged her lamb beneath the heat lamp. My lamb was wedged into the corner. I gently tossed her lamb back at her and knelt down to tend to the other. I soaked an index finger in the tepid milk remaining in the ice cream pale. I held it up to the lambs nose. It seemed to recognize the aroma. Then I messaged its lips and gums. The mouth opened. The tiny teeth nipped at my fingers. The tongue engulfed my finger and sought food. It tried to suck my entire finger down its throat. The teeth nipped into my knuckle and the electric pulse flashed through me again. I pulled my finger free and replaced it with the faux nipple. The land began to suck. His head bobbed up and down and he struggled to one knee, his hind legs were already in the air, his tail fluttering to and fro. Then he struggled to the other knee. A moment later he was standing as he drained the bottle.

I left him with the other lamb and began to search for my gloves. Its call echoed after me as I headed for the feed lot. I checked my watch. It would be at least another four hours before I had to feed my lamb again.