Sheep and Emotions Tears of a Sheep

We lived on a farm touching the foot sole of Africa. We had cats and dogs and cockatiels who, as a rule, did not mind sharing their water and pellets and untouched food with wild birds and the itinerant snake. On occasion, I had to dive into the grass to escape a raging/playful bull, the pigs impatiently awaited our leftovers and the horses neighed with pleasure when you walked in their direction. We watched the sunset against the sound of sheep returning to their paddocks. Baby animal funerals did not take up most of our time, except for the loss of a litter of puppies (the mother too small for her litter sired by a breed too big) and kittens to meningitis. Motherhood in the wild seemed so simple and uncomplicated. Or is that what I wanted to believe?

The world spun around and we landed right on the other side of the planet, in a city with lots trimmed to exact size to accommodate a house with rooms too small. The neighbors were on your doorstep and the vehicles polluted the air in your bedroom and kitchen. Sirens shouting crime or emergency, replaced the bleating of sheep returning from the fields. Birds and ducks and creatures of the wild are tied in a desperate competition for space and movement with cars and houses and humans. Yearning for and hankering after a spot in the sun surrounded by nature and fields and trees and less mortar and bricks and cement, we left the packed, ever-moving city for relative peace, quiet happiness in the countryside, on a small lot. Our two cats keep to their curfew and under my watchful eye and with the aid of bells, live as - perhaps frustrated - bird watchers. The Doberman loves the space and has chosen the bees and flies as his mates. The seven sheep we 'adopted', give that lasting air of rural life to our current lifestyle. The as yet unidentified snake that crossed our property has been named Sita; the three bobtails are Harry, Zet and Ypres. The lizard sunning itself under the grid answers to the name Larry. The countless birds talk and gossip in the trees and a frog sings in the water tank. The worms are active in the garden and the mice scurry around for pleasure and food. At night, shiny white eyes can be detected in the sheep's paddock and might belong to rabbits or possums. We all co-exist and co-habit to our hearts' content.

With delight and proud adopted motherhood, I watched the seven sheep become eight. The little lamb delighted with legs too tall for the tiny body, but it skipped and followed its mom with the confidence of someone who has lived forever. I took photographs and watched him frolicking and playing and teasing the grass and the wind in the company of the seven adult family members. He ran with incredible speed alongside his mother whenever you entered the paddock and knew somehow that safety was in numbers. I watched and guarded the paddock throughout the night, too scared that foxes or birds or the unkind side of nature could make a call. He grew more sprightly and stronger under my watchful eye. At the tender age of a mere 12 days, he quietly disappeared. No trace, no indication, no sign. A river flow of tears, tremendous sadness, hunting every centimeter of the property could not find him at all. It left me in mourning - for the lamb, for the mother, for myself, without answers or explanations. I apologized to the mother that despite all my efforts, I failed as shepherd and could not protect the precious life of her offspring. Of all domesticated animals, sheep are the only ones who cannot survive without the protection and assistance of humans. Nature showed its ugly side, and somehow I did not like it. A week of mourning, right through my fiftieth year of existence, brought me no closer to acceptance or solutions. Another ewe ready to drop, increased my stress and reduced my appetite. Like a cornered animal, I tried to figure out how to best protect the new baby against any natural enemy, Mother Nature by name. And I watched, and prayed, and hoped that this time, I - and the mother ewe - would be able to watch the baby grow into a healthy adult, able to fend for itself.

This morning, on Sunday, the little lamb made its appearance just after nine. Its white little head scanned planet earth to see if it offered what it promised to be. The mother cleaned her little one, the other six sheep watching with interest. The new arrival twitched its little ears, and moved its little head around. The ewe's vigilant watch never faltered, as she nibbled on the ground around her offspring. An hour later, I was frantic. Why didn't it stand up? The ewe allowed me into the paddock, moving just a few paces away, watching me as I looked at her little lamb. It was pink, the soft pink of the horizon just after sunset, decorated with soft white fleece. It looked so tiny, so fragile, and so unable to stand on its own four legs. It was resting after all the efforts of trying to stand up. The placenta was still red and fresh.

I am no expert at baby life, except perhaps when it comes to cats. After phoning around for advice and answers, I returned to my watch, waiting, waiting for the baby to rise. It made valiant efforts; I could see the legs trying to get into position. I sent silent and audible encouragement to the little lamb to succeed. The ewe grazed and watched, gently nudging the baby, inquiring when it was going to face the big cruel world. The baby rested and tried, again and again. The ewe used her front hooves to try and help the baby. I could no longer stand the tension. She was turning the baby around and I feared she might kill it.

As Deon and I ran for the paddock, the angel of death in the shape of a vulture, moved closer to the 'crib' of the baby. It was so sad, so desperately sad, as I ran and stumbled to get to the baby, shooing the bird away. I knew it was dead, even as Deon arranged the tiny little head on its twisted neck back into its natural shape. A baby who barely lived two hours, its tiny body surrounded by love in a futile death. The mother's efforts to revive her baby covered its woolly coat in sand and grass and tiny pebbles. The little nose was covered in mucus. I willed it to live, to breathe, to no avail. In the midst of a patch of yellowed, sheep-clipped grass, my husband stood with his comforting arms around my uncontrollable sobbing body, the tears running down his face. A life, so innocent, so fragile, so short. The ewe watched, asked, and we could not answer. Her hooves left desperate resuscitation imprints on the tiny body. It must have been such a desolate and lonely picture, a big, sad man in a brown jacket with a little dead lamb in his arms, a woman too old for her years who sobbingly hunts for a little coffin, a ewe following the scent of her dead baby. Oh, the cruel face of nature. The pain is as piercing as having lost a piece of myself, the loss of this tiny little lamb. The intensity of the mother's pain, her calling and looking for her only child, is indescribable in human or animal language. Simplicity of parenthood or life? It does not exist.

The mother has been mourning and calling her lost child throughout the day, with me watching helplessly and crying soulfully - none of us satisfied or consoled.

I dug his grave up on the little hilly terrace, where he will sleep in the morning shade. It must be a nice spot - Khan and Sabrina loves it out there and will watch over him. He can look down onto the paddock which he was supposed to share with his mother. His mother's white face, turning towards the house, questioning, begging, is within sight.

Deon placed the little coffin into the freshly dug grave. Two adults, crying, over the loss of a baby. My tears mixed with the gravel which I shoveled back into the grave, covering for the last time, my little lamb. The ewe watched, so did the five aunts and the lamb's father. A small, sad funeral.

Goodbye little lamb.