Published: October 02, 2008 04:17 pm         

Farm animals in transit

It’s been an adventure, breeding and raising sheep these fourteen years. And it was apt that my last transport of lambs we’ve bred and raised here should have been an adventure in itself.

Bittersweet business, closing down production and heading for an empty sheep shed this winter. With the five lambs gone to ``summer camp,’’ only the three ewes remain. They’ll be moving up to the Pullyblanks’ farm in a month or so, taking quarters vacated by pigs that will have been transmuted into pork.

That will leave us with an empty sheep shed and free me of hauling pails of water and bales of hay along icy paths. Those duties are beyond me now.

``For everything there is a season.’’ Amen.

I’m left, of course, with great memories, especially of the parade of ewes across the years. Dim, sweet-tempered creatures, they became especially memorable when we began to name them. (Never did that with the lambs, for obvious reasons.) We named the ewes alphabetically, the better to keep birth records; but I didn’t get that idea until we had both Mary and Maude in residence.

For some reason, we skipped ``n,’’ but then followed Olive, Pearl, Quenella, Rachael, Sophie, Tess, and Uma. Sophie ascended to greener pastures, and so it’ Rachael, Sophie, and Uma who will be heading up the valley to their new home. The rent-a-ram will be visiting them there a month later. It’ll seem like old times.

Tuesday of last week was transport day for the four lambs, and I was up early, putting the plywood panels on the rusty old pickup (the one, you’ll remember, the sheep tried to eat a month ago.) I got the truck into the paddock and backed it up to a ramp I’d already set in place.

That ramp was designed and built by Wolfgang Merk when he and Mary-Jo were sharing ownership of pigs with us. Wolf, who doesnÆt do things halfway, built it sturdy enough to load hippos; and so it’s always worked fine for pigs and sheep. They usually amble up its cleated surface like passengers boarding a cruise ship. Three-foot wooden walls on either side of the ramp keep the animals from being distracted as they climb.

By the time I had the ramp in place and all the sheep and lambs closed in their shed, Anne had come down from the house to help. I told her that, instead of struggling to separate lambs from ewes, I was going to run all seven up the ramp, drive them to Laurens, then bring back just the ewes. Anne raised eyebrows but climbed up the ramp herself to gather everybody in.

It started well. I opened the shed and the flock started up the ramp. Then somebody balked, two turned around, and we ended with all of them wedged on the ramp and between its wooden sides. I had come up behind them and was pushing hard to keep them all from stampeding down the ramp again.

For a while it was an impasse. They weren’t upset or baaing, but they weren’t moving either.

Just a big mass of wool, tightly wedged. Finally I got hold of Tess’s horns and wrestled her around to face up the ramp. That broke the sheep-jam, and onto the truck they went.

I slammed the tailgate but realized I had an extra ewe aboard: My bride was inside, up to her waist in sheep. But with amazing grace, Anne climbed over the wooden side and down a stepladder I’d set in place. Then, leaving Anne behind shaking her head, I rattled off toward Laurens.

At Don Toombs’ neatly kept home, I drove into the back yard and up the unloading gates. With little trouble, I held the three ewes in place while the lambs were lifted down. Then the ewes and I started home.

At the gas station where the Laurens road meets 205, I pulled in to gas up and get a cup of coffee. Back behind the wheel, I turned the key and got only a click in response. For forty-five minutes a kind-hearted local man named Milton worked to get us going again but concluded that my starter was gone.

In another hour AAA arrived with a big flatbed and hauled aboard the truck, sheep and all. And back to Fly Creek we went, I in the wrecker cab and the sheep riding high, almost ten feet off the ground. Then, with ewes left with Anne, the truck and I were hauled to Staffin’ on Route 28.

Mike Staffin had warned me repeatedly about the truck. (I believe he thought the sheep eating it was a good idea.) As the wrecker pulled into his lot, Mike stood, hands on hips. He almost managed not to grin.

Oh, back at the gas station, another local man had stood sympathetically watching Milton’s efforts to get me going. I wandered over to him.

``Here I am stuck with a broken-down truck twenty miles from home — and three sheep on board, to boot. What should I do?’’I wish my old buddy Arrie could have heard his answer. The man studied the situation for another moment and then said, ``Waal, we could eat `em. . .’’

Read about Jim Atwell’s book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country at JimAtwell. com,