Calling the Sheep

There is a lump in my throat and an ache in my heart for the events that have transpired in the last few days, and in true form the best way for me to process pain is to “offer it up” by writing it down.

This story starts over 20 years ago when we bought our first herd of 100 bred ewes. They were a motley looking crew of mixed breeds, some with long tails, multiple ear notches, unshorn and we paid a whopping $75 a piece for them. They arrived a month before lambing with rounded bellies and full of promise for lambs and adventures to come.

Though my formal training was limited, I’d spent a lifetime watching and listening to my Dad with his cows. He always said, “just listen to them, and they’ll tell you what they need.” Crazy right? Not so, my Dad and would call them, “Saaaaa bosss,” and here those cows would come. He knew his cows, and took his job as their herdsman to heart. He could tell a sick cow before she showed outward symptoms. There were two parts to taking care of cows as far as my Dad was concerned first was heard health which included vaccinations, veterinary care and most importantly nutrition; then there was handling them, and this was as important as the first. He insisted that we work slowly and quietly with the cows, and understanding and reading their movements and posture which meant knowing just when to take a small step back or turn your shoulders in order to get a cow to come quietly past you in the alley. My Dad’s temper didn’t flare often, but working cows too roughly or in haste or standing “in the wrong spot” were things that set him off. Low stress was the net effect of good handling and that was imprinted on me at a young age.

With this as my template and something I wanted to emulate with our sheep, I started calling my girls when we fed them. Arbitrarily I called them with a roll of the tongue and a blow, sounding much like a “Brrrr, brrrrr, brrrr, but with vibrating and rolling my tongue off the roof of my mouth. It didn’t take long for the ewes to realize that sound was associated with me and food, and I called to them every time I fed them or approached them. This came in handy moving them as well.

That first year, my lambing crew was Meggie age 3 and Jake 1; while my herding dog an aged Cocker Spaniel named Tootie. This cowgirl had raised lots of bum lambs over the years but my only point of reference with lambing were my days in the calving barn one sheep production class at CSU, and thankfully my sister Maym who had a flock of Suffolk ewes in Wyoming. That lambing season I worked against mother nature and snow to turn healthy and bouncy lambs out of the lambing barn. The chaos that comes with two toddlers and a house dog, didn’t seem to bother the ewes as long as I worked slowly and quietly. I could feel them start to trust me. It definitely was initiation by fire and I’m not sure if it were the chores at the lambing barn, the worry, or just the work of packing the wagon full of supplies, snacks and clean clothes for two toddlers. Needless to say we survived, sheep included.

The joys and sorrows of shepherding that followed were numerous in the next 20+ years. The kids would squeal with delight, “the sheep parade is coming, the sheep parade is coming,” and grab their lawn chairs every spring and fall to watch as the big herds would trail home to lamb in the spring and to the desert in the fall. Then there were of course raising bum lambs that could put a smile on most anyone’s face when they discover their “springs”. The lamb Olympics was also a favorite pastime in watching 50-60 lambs gather up a posse to sprint and jump along the banks the creek. There is nothing greater joy than to watch ewes and new lambs as you turn them out of the barn onto pasture. Lambs bleating and calling for mom as they explore the green lush scape that they will soon know as home.

Since that time, Joe and I have always raised sheep and aspired to be full-time sheep people, while dreaming of hanging up our day jobs. I guess that’s what we’d hoped retirement would look like. Four years ago we embarked on our last full-fledged dream and effort to accomplish this in buying a beautiful farm on Fish Hatchery Drive in Scio, Oregon and buying some 300 bred ewes – and keeping our day jobs. We’ve had our struggles here in figuring out the issues a wet warm climate presents with herd health, pastures etc. but I can honestly say that we were winning. (If we were just 20 years younger, dang!). When we moved to Oregon we knew that we’d either go broke in the sheep business or my long-term health issues would force us out of the business. Proudly, I can say we haven’t gone broke, though we were looking over the edge a time or two. Regrettably my declining health has pushed us dissolve the herd and put our place on the market. We have to downsize to preserve my health.

This is where the story takes me to Monday, when I arrived an hour before the sale to check on my girls. As I walked through the pens, I started calling to them. “Brrrrrr, brrrr,” rolled off my tongue and soon we had a chorus going. They responded as if to say, “hi momma, where’s the feed?” Tears streamed down my face as I continued through all the pens to say good-bye. I regrouped and pulled myself together to sit in the stands watch the sale. Most of the younger viable ewes sold to the same place and will stay together, but the older ewes regrettably and were sold to the mutton buyer. I wish I could have done better for those old girls that produced so well for us. A piece of my heart went out that gate when the last ewe left the ring and the auctioneer, yelled “sold.”

Monday was a tough day for sure but now I’m transforming my sadness into gratitude. I now know that God had a plan for me as a shepherd. It wasn’t forever, but it was a HUGE part of my life (& our family’s life). I had no idea the lessons these noble wooly creatures would teach me about life, health, nurturing and leadership and for that I’m so imminently grateful.

Once a shepherd always a shepherd. Just like a doctor that can no longer practice or an artist that can no longer paint, they still are doctor and artist. You can bet I will slow down to watch ewes and lambs grazing along the road, and I will look back on these years with a smile, and hope that somewhere, sometime, I’ll be reunited with my girls. Brrrrrr, brrrrrr, brrrrrr. Thankfully we have 250 fat and sassy lambs at home to take us through the summer.