New Life in the Dead of Winter

The weatherman warned for weeks to be ready for “THE BLIZZARD of 2011.” Even though I remained
skeptical about the magnitude of Snowmageddon, I would not take chances with newborn lambs. I
was reminded of past years and failures with lambing. In one instance, the young and helpless lambs
arrived into a cold, desolate world and nearly froze the first night. The lambs would not pass to the
next realm or regain consciousness. Their days faded as life lingered aimlessly in their bodies.
Nothing could have stopped what happened. The undeveloped lungs in the earthlings made
breathing difficult and life outside the womb impossible. Why do I even raise sheep? I reflected
heavily on the question. While frustrated and upset over the tragedy, I realize the joy of watching
newborn lambs far outweighs the occasional disappointment.

The ewe stood out in the pasture heavy with lamb. My brother and I would have to bring her home
before the storm hit. With the help of our border collies, Heidi and Tasha drive the ewe up the hill in a
blur of fur. We hunker down, ready to pounce on her. She quickly figures out the set-up and dodges
the trap. After many failed attempts, we finally corner her next to a gate. We creep up slowly and
halter her. I pull on the rope as she tugs stubbornly in response. The dogs nip at her rump forcing her
to move. She follows submissively allowing some slack in the rope. We move her to a new pen close
to the house.

The expectant mother could lamb anytime. While not the most experienced midwife, I could avoid
mistakes by monitoring her progress. Ten after two, the clock in the garage displays. I pinch my arm.
Really? I am really out here at 2 A.M.?! My fingers, convulsing and lacking coordination, struggle to
tie my laces together. Heidi slobbers all over my face but fails to wake me from my slumber. I rip the
door open, exposing myself to the elements. The cold tries to shake the grogginess out, but my body
fights back hoping to return to an earlier catatonic state. The wind hisses through the trees and the
clouds spray snow as I stumble across the yard to check the gestating mother. “Baaaaaa,” the ewes
bleat. Their ears turn up. They watch carefully as I traverse the crunchy snow with my flashlight. My
yearlings skip up to the gate and behold my faithful face. Anxiously, I inspect the group. Looking for
new signs of life, I climb over the gate. The ewe stands still in the corner of her three-sided shack. I
hope for something to emerge. She bolts. My eyes focus and notice two little black bundles nestled in
the corner. Their abdomens rise and fall rhythmically. The flashlight's beam extends over their bodies
and arouses the little creatures. The mother cautiously returns to her offspring. With maternal grace,
the ewe nudges the babies with her nose. The lambs stand up and stretch. Surprised and also
relieved, I fetch a towel from the house. I return and clean off the afterbirth, drying my precious little
lambs. The lambs frolic as their mother worriedly watches. I wait for the lambs to nurse and calmly
walk back to the house knowing I could sleep at ease.