Feed My Sheep

My granddad took his well-worn pocketknife out of his overall’s pocket, pulled out the largest razor-sharp blade and slid it under the dead lamb’s skin. A cold sleet beat against the hill and against our faces as his claw-like hands sliced out a section of cold and slimy wool-covered skin from the lamb’s back and sides. He needed a portion of the skin large enough to be tied over the back of a live lamb. My granddad knows how to save most every lamb. Some didn't make it, but he always does his best to keep even the frailest ones alive. For some reason known only to him, he seems to care for his sheep more than any of the other animals on our farm.

As he finished slicing out the section of skin from the dead lamb, the mother ewe circled him and shuffled about with great alarm, bleating a mournful cry. Her newborn lamb had died during the cold night, or was dead upon birth. She had not been able to breathe life into its frail weak body by getting it quickly cleaned of the afterbirth. She had not been able to get it on its wobbly legs and upright in order for it to suckle its first life-giving nourishment.

The wind blew across the ridge as the dark gray clouds sent sharp pellets of sleet toward the crumpled grass stems and the brittle dried leaves. Most animals will seek some natural shelter when giving birth. This ewe had found a small buck-brush thicket under the hill and away from the strongest winds, but it was not enough. Some newborn animals will survive the severest weather. Nature is strange that way. Life or death seems to be such a chance.

My granddad wiped the blade on his pant leg, folded the knife, and slipped it into his pocket. “Throw that dead lamb in a holler and bring those other yohs to the barn,” he said as he disappeared up over the ridge. He pronounces "ewe" as "yoh", and many other words in a peculiar way. He didn’t have much education, but is smart about many things. He always seems to be thinking. He thinks about important things that will make our lives better on our farm. He wants to make all lives better, all the animals and particularly his sheep.

He picked up the cold, soggy lambskin and started for the barn. The mother ewe followed him and continued bleating in an anxious way. I felt sad for her, because she didn’t know what to do.

I stood over the dead lamb, but didn’t want to look at it. The only sound was the mournful cry of the mother ewe during its sorrowful time. She then began running back and forth from my granddad, as he headed to the barn with the skin, to the carcass near where I stood. She finally ran to him as the sleet began beating down again against the side of the hill. It was a soft sound at first, but then it turned to ice and began to hit with greater force as the wind drove the frozen pellets across the ridge and sent them glancing and bouncing to the frozen earth. I stood with my face away from the stings of the sleet, and hesitated to look at the skinned dead lamb.  I didn’t want to touch it, but knew I had no choice. I always do whatever my granddad tells me.

When stooping to lift the lamb, and trying not to look, I caught a glimpse of its face. It was perfect in its place, and I wanted to think it was only in sleep with pleasant dreams. The pure white fleece around its head would keep it warm, I wished. 

My granddad would be waiting, and the other sheep were waiting too. I grabbed one of the dead lamb’s legs and lifted it from the ground. I looked away as I slung it with all my might down the hill. The cold blood and slime flew in my face. My granddad’s hand was bloody too, but he had work to do, and his hands were often covered with dirt and mud and stains that a farmer can’t avoid. I wiped my face with my coat sleeve, and then moved toward the other sheep to drive them to the barn.