There’s a glimmer of a thing beyond the brow of the hill. A thin little tattered scrap of a lamb just behind the arching profile of her mother, lambed in tight against the fence where the grey stone wall and the brambles back it. Shelter, shade, protection. I can see the mothers head dipping down to it, nuzzling, cleaning, connecting. Pushing it towards breath and life.
It is wet. It is cold. We rush up to the hill field. Two thin lambs not much larger than the palm of my hand are shivering on the wet ground. They are small. Too small. It’s afternoon. Lucky for them. The spring still has winters teeth. We have hit minus three overnight in recent days. In the afternoon, they have a shot.
The lambs are barely able to stand on their spidery legs. They splay, shiver and wobble. Their mother, attentive, can do so much. Nudge. Nicker. Clean and push. But feeding is something they have to manage for themselves. The smallest lamb can’t. Tries, falls. Gathers itself. Calls and tries again. But she can’t. And she won’t. These are the margins with underweight lambs. Thin.
We scoop her up. And her brother. Scramble down the shoulder of the hill, holding them low, hoping she’ll follow their call. The ewes in the flock hear the lambs. Ewes close to their own labour barge in, they fight and muscle to get close to the lambs. To steal them. Bully off the mother. Things are confused. This is the ewes first time. She’s torn between her flock and her lambs. It’s difficult. She tears off across the field to the flock and back to her nest. It’s not working. Tinkerbell, a few hours off her own birth, muscles past me to the lambs and begins to nurse them.
I’ve made a curving nest of branches in the field to trap ewes in. I set the lambs down, back off. Screen the rest of the flock away. They call and yell. She comes running. I wave my arms like a tilting windmill at the flock. They scatter. I catch and trap her there, scoop the lambs up and her with me, and bring all three down to the warm stables. Shelter. Fresh straw. A heat lamp for the lambs. Clean water. Feed.
We give this lamb it’s first ever feed. It won’t make it if we don’t. I’m the first thing to have fed it in it’s life. This is our shot. Her shot.
It works. We caught her early enough. She has the energy and moxy to drink. For her size, she takes a huge feed. She collapses on tiny legs. Milk drunk and happy. And warm will follow. We dry her off quickly. In the fleece I was wearing. Her brother too, and set her down with her mother.
Her mother is patient. She stands for hours. Nickers constantly to the lambs. Noses them up gently. They feed. Little and often. Hard on the mother, but she is there for them.
We’ve given them the best chance. I think they’ll take it.
