Saying Goodbye to Johnny

Almost a year ago, we adopted two orphan sheep. We kept them in a pen in the garage under a heat lamp, where they were bottle fed, held and coddled. We named them Johnny and Violet. Although we're omnivores, there was no question that these two animals would remain pets.

 Bringing them home.

The pen in the garage.

Feeding time.

As they grew, they were moved into a larger outdoor pen, where they got to know the horses, chickens and pigs with whom they'd be sharing a field.

We began taking them with us on walks, and they were as companionable as any dog. (One of my sons is allergic to dogs, so we sometimes improvise.)

They grew and thrived up in the field. And though they didn't need us to look after them anymore, they ran to us when we came to see them, and enjoyed a hearty scratch behind the ears.

Two days ago, I got a call from Kitty that Johnny had died in the night. The cause of his death is a complete mystery to us, but we all shared the grief of his passing. My boys responded with various degrees of sadness-ranging from silence to an outpouring of tears. They all keep asking "Why?" One sagely remarked, "Well. That's just life." 

Violet (above) seems very bereft, and though she still has the company of the other animals in the field, she'll likely be put in with some other sheep with the hope that she can adapt to their company. Sheep are not solitary animals. The lambing season begins again in a month or two, and the kids are already asking if we can get new babies, even though they know there is no replacing the one we lost.

The boys also wanted to know what will become of Johnny, and I explained about his body returning to the earth, possibly helping a tree to grow somewhere that will provide shade for another sheep in the future. I don't know if this was the right thing to say, and they have their own theories about these things. But I think they're right about one thing, whatever does happen, that's just life. 

The Lambing Season

My last post included a photo of a newborn lamb in the field. For the past couple of days, the boys and I have been walking down the road to Kitty's farmyard to visit the new babies who are being born there every day. Most of them are nestled into the hay with their mamas, but several tiny ones have been turned out by their mothers, and are now orphans.

Mother nature isn't always a kind lady. This little love was mostly skin and bones, and she was bottle fed and put under a heat lamp in an effort to keep her going. Michael stood hovering over her box two days ago, unable to tear himself away from her sad bleating, and asking me over and over again where her mama was. It was heartbreaking, and this morning when we went back to check up on her, she was gone. Although I think there are important teaching moments that can happen when we live this close to nature's way of doing things, it seems unkind to let my three year old know that she has died. He'll have plenty of chances later on to find our about survival of the fittest, and in a way, as the youngest of three boys, he's learning enough about that within his own family already.

These orphans are faring much better; they're about four weeks old. Here you can see them fighting over the nipples attached to an artificial feeder by their pen. They're also under a heat lamp, and when they rest they huddle together and keep each other warm and happy.

Soon these three will be weaned off of the bottle, and will switch to feed. For now they are still too young and delicate to live out in the field, so they still need a warm box and food. Kitty is calling the black and white one Big Ears, and I'm pretty sure we've decided to adopt him. He walked right up to us this morning and let us pet him as if he were a puppy. The boys begged me to take him home, and Kitty and I are talking about it. Henry has just finished building the chicken run out in the garden. I think next week he'll have to build a lamb pen, too. Obviously, I'll keep you posted.