Pimp My Ram

So the other day, S calls me at work to tell me that she has a friend who wants to breed to my ram. Hmmm. THIS is interesting. I never really thought about this concept. I have Trinity to make next year's roasts and lamb chops. I'd keep him anyway, because I really like this ram. He's even-tempered, easy to handle, kindly to my ewes, has marvelous wool, and, as an added bonus, is (IMO) very handsome. In a strictly platonic, sheep-type way, you understand. Moreover, he settled 100% of my ewes last year (one third of whom were unproven). S and R have some objections to him - mainly, that he's a Shetland, which means he isn't a giant ram, and his offspring are therefore on the smaller end. OTOH, they've had other rams at their farm, and some of them have been right bastards. One of them escaped his pen and, whilst R was fixing the fence, ran her down repeatedly; she finally had to pepper-spray him to get him off her back. Literally.


Having run the numbers more than once, S has determined that the only way to be profitable in a small sheep operation in Alaska is to keep small-ish, thrifty ewes who are good mothers, breed them to a ram lamb of a larger, meat-producing breed, and then to slaughter and eat the ram lamb once breeding season is over. This means you don't support a non-productive animal over the winter, and that when your ewes are open, they're smaller, thriftier animals who don't require a lot of feed for upkeep. In the spring, the meat-cross lambs are born (typically without difficulty, as the Shetlands ewes usually lamb easily) and rapidly gain size at a rate that outstrips that possible for Shetlands. Because Shetlands are generally good mothers, and produce reasonable quantities of milk, they generally don't have trouble rearing twins, even if the twins ARE bigger than standard Sheltands.


However... despite all these reasoned and sensible arguments, I just can't go for it. Maybe it's sentimental, but I can't bring myself to even consider slaughtering Trinity. For one thing, he's genetically distant from the other Shetlands up here; most everything else in the area (Shetland-wise) is somewhat related, since it's a geographically isolated population. Trinity was imported specifically to address this issue. You kinda hate to lose that. For another thing.... I just really LIKE this ram.


I'm not the only one. My shearer said two things about Trinity: One, "What an easy ram! I never shear one that behaves this well." And, "Man, this is nice fleece; you should enter this in the fair." Even S and R admit that he's a nice ram, and easy to tend and keep.

Oh... and have I mentioned that he's a handsome beast?





However, it hasn't escaped my notice that I am pretty much just eating most of Trinity's offspring, which sort of dead-ends his genetic usefulness. So it was kind of nice to think that someone else might want to take advantage of his genetics - someone, moreover, who is interested in fiber production, which means that his young will be hanging around for a while, and possibly one day producing young of their own, thus perpetuating his genes.


Meanwhile, S suggested to her friend that maybe I'd consider bartering for my stud fee. Hmmm. Interesting concept. As it happens, I have no idea what to ask for a stud fee. Apart from which, I've learned (after 13 years in the Greatland) that there are any number of people up here who have all kinds of interesting skills, talents, and various resources. Hence barter is something that is sort of culturally satisfying, as well as potentially profitable in ways that a cash exchange is not.


The upshot of all this that S and R's friend is bringing over her ewe, two bales of hay, and five range-reared organic chickens, already butchered and wrapped and ready for my freezer. Trinity - and here, put on your "surprised" face - is more than content to do his bit without payment of any sort. We plan to put her ewe in with my flock for two breeding cycles. The hay is for her upkeep and S and R's trouble, and the chickens are for the use of Trinity's testicles (and all associated apparatus).


Meanwhile, I had kept out Trinity's daughter from this year, Gigantor, to hold her open this year. I know plenty of people breed ewe lambs their first season, and probably that would've been the easy thing to do; however, I'm a big fat chicken when it comes to things like that, so I thought I might just let her finish her growth before I bred her for the first time. However, on the tenth, Trinity made himself a hole in the fence and made his way into the goat pen, where Gigantor is vacationing until breeding season is over. That may be of no real import. Or it may be that Gigantor will be lambing with the rest of them come spring. Best laid plans, and all that. So to speak.


So, I've now entered the world of breeding for profit, albeit in a (very) small, barter-oriented way. This seems like a good deal for this year, at least, and possibly for future years. It also opens up the possibility of sending Trinity off to breed wool babies at another farm next year whilst I buy, use and butcher a meat ram for my own ewes next year, a plan that fills S and R with anticipatory glee. This all leaves me with only one burning question.


Does this mean I'm a pimp now?

Gumby-goo, Round Two

A little more about Gumby, while he's fresh in people's minds.

On Saturdays, the clinic closes at two, and it's a lovely thing, on a tender, warm spring afternoon, to come home from work, feed your lamb, and then maybe lay on your bed and have a little read whilst the dogs and cats and diapered lamb all meander peacefully about your room. One such afternoon, I was laying head-to foot on my bed, my feet propped up on my pillows and the rest of me propped up on my elbows, belly-down and enjoying a good mystery story. My bedroom has one wall composed almost entirely of a sliding glass door (leading out onto a balcony and a spectacular view of the lake and the Chugach mountains). For the sake of privacy, but in service of letting in as much light as possible, I have a set of sheers hanging there. On pretty days, they let in abundant light and a somewhat misty version of my view, and the fabric of the sheers seems in some way to capture and magnify the light, so that there's a soft extra glow to them.

On this particular afternoon, I fell asleep over my book. I wake up a little while later, my face turned toward the light, and I think, in a dreamy, luxurious sort of way, how pleasant it is to have a little mid-day nap, and how pretty the light is coming in through the curtains, and how adorable and striking it is to see little black Gumby-goo silhouetted against the glowing white backdrop....

A tiny frown forms on my brow. What is it about Gumby's posture that is catching my eye? He's just standing there... but oh, crap, his back is hunched in the urination posture. I bolt up, preparing to snatch him up and shunt him, still peeing, out onto the easily-washed balcony - and then I realize: He's urinating directly into my shoe. I think: Which is easier, shampooing the carpet and washing the deck, or taking the liner out of my shoe and tossing it in the laundry? I subside, a wryly amused little smile taking hold of me as I watch Gumby finish urinating blissfully into my cross-trainer. Done with his task, he looks at me, essays a little bleat of contentment, and begins chewing meditatively on the curtain. Oh, well. I was going to replace those anyway.

At the time I had Gumby, I also had (amongst others) a dog named Buddy. Buddy was meant to be a Border collie, but he was (as the BF, from whom I inherited Buddy, liked to say) more of a BorderLINE collie. Buddy was strange and delightful and so not what a working dog is bred to be, but I loved him with all my heart - more because of his strangeness than in spite of it, to tell the truth. Buds was never in life going to approximate anything even remotely resembling a stockdog, but he was, bless his pointed little heart, perfectly content to share his world with an increasingly-bratty diaper-wearing lamb. Buddy was tall and narrow, built like a sight-hound, with a deep, deep chest and a tiny little wasp-waist, lean ropey arms and thighs fat with muscle. He was a tri-color merle, with long silky feathers disguising his race-car build, and chocolate eyes capable of the sultriest glance this side of Savannah. He was shy and coy and when stressed would panic to the mental shut-down point, where he simply ran out of thought about what to do next, and could only try to run away from it. But he was kind-hearted and gentle, and possessed of a silliness and joy of being that were irresistible. He was a charming dog, strange and unique, and I suppose (with him four years in his grave) that I will miss him forever.

One afternoon, not long after Gumby christened my shoe, I was again lounging head-to-foot on my bed with a book. Buddy, standing bedside, began to essay his peculiar high, scribbly growl.

"Knock it off, Buddy," I said, mildly, figuring he was defending his spot against encroaching dogs. But Buddy's growl ratcheted up a notch in pitch and volume, and began to take on an odd hitching effect, like if you went "Aaaaaaahhhhhh" whilst thumping yourself hard on the chest. Hmmm. I leaned over the side of the bed to see what was wrong, and I find two things: One, Buds is pinned against the side of the bed, with a look combined of alarm, annoyance and confusion on his pointed face. And two, the reason for all this is that Gumby - no doubt led by instinct - has his head tucked deep in Buddy's flank, butting vigorously in a search for food. What he was sucking on, I don't want to know.

Ack! Poor Buds. The book goes flying as I launch myself off the bed to Buddy's rescue. Gumby is in no danger, as the expression on Buddy's face is a lot closer to his "Panic/help me!" face than it is to a "Knock that off or I'll bite you, you brat!" face, but Buddy is approaching the melt-down point. I wonder in passing how long Gumby has been trying to nurse off him, and what indignities he may have inflicted on Buddy's person in the pursuit thereof. I scoop Gumby up and trot downstairs to make him a bottle. Buddy, mightily relieved, jumps up onto the refuge of the bed and curls up there, his head protectively over his flank and a weather eye on Diaper Boy.

Unfortunately for Buddy (not to mention my legs), not long after mastering the jump-on-couch maneuver, Gumby began attempting the same trick on my bed. The bed is quite high, and the first time he attempted it, Gumby hit the side of the bed and fell, landing pathetically on his little back, bleating with dismay. That was very sad, and I tried not to let Gumby make the attempt.... but the nature of life is that sooner or later something distracts you, and also that you can't be everywhere at once. It wasn't long before Gumby had judged his distance and learned to spring up onto the bed, with a panache that would have impressed a mountain goat. Thus commenced a short era of bruises on my legs that weren't that easy to explain.

I would, in the normal course of things, already have placed Gumby in an outdoor home, but I was due for a school program at one of the local elementary schools, and the teacher (a client of mine) had specifically requested that I bring Gumby to meet the second-graders. In the interest of keeping him as comfortable and pliable around people as possible, I let him continue to live as an indoor-outdoor lamb. Truth to tell, he was an excellent gardening companion, happily mowing down my dandelions - which are legion - but ignoring the tender leaves of my tomato plants. He would placidly follow me anywhere I cared to go, and if I should see a stray dog heading down the road in our direction, he would come when asked to and could be quickly stashed in the house. He was getting a bit heavy to be picked up, but it was still an option in those days. He would readily hop into the truck for a ride, and he had, at last, graduated from diapers (having finally mastered the knack of producing a normal stool). To some degree sheep have latrine areas, so he was even somewhat housebroken.

Eventually a day came when it was time to take Gumby to the rescue farm, where he could live in the sunny outdoors and enjoy the company of other sheep. The day I took him there, the owner's 12-year-old son asked me why I was giving Gumby to them.

"Because he's a sheep, sweetie, and sheep need to live in groups. He needs to live like a sheep and have sheep friends, and all I have is a bunch of dogs for him to play with. "

"But... he loves you," the boy said. Just like that, strait to the heart of the matter, all other considerations unimportant.

Twelve year old boys. They'll break you heart.

"He does," I allow, "and I love him, too. But I think he'll be happier in the long run, being a sheep. Besides, this is a good place to live, and I can come visit him, right?"

Gumby never did forget me, nor lose his love of people. At first he tended to hang around nearer the dog pen than the other sheep - dogs, after all, were what he was most used to - but after a while it dawned on him that he really had more in common with the other sheep. He gradually relaxed into life as part of a flock, although the moment I appeared on the scene he would detach himself from the group and come trotting over so I could scratch his favorite spot under his chin, and oh, by the way, did I have anything for him to eat? His days of scrawny, hunch-backed apathy were long behind him, and he grew into a robust, solid Shetland, thickly padded with fine silky wool. As he matured to adulthood his wool went silver, as is often the case with the black lambs, but his face has stayed the same.

And so has his sweet Shetland heart.

I have Sheep Lust

No, not THAT kind of sheep lust. What do you take me for?

What I have is a distinct longing for more sheep to add to my flock.

Right now I have five sheep, all Shetlands. I never in 1,000,000 years thought I would have sheep. Ever. I mean, I raised orphan lambs when we were kids (this started as a 4-H project, which I wasn't very good at... I loved raising the lambs - and I WAS good at that - but I hated the record-keeping that the 4-H-ers wanted you to do, I didn't like showing them, and I really really didn't like that my little lambs were going to slaughter in the fall, to reside in our freezer for later consumption. For one thing, I didn't like the taste of lamb, particularly, and for another... ick. That was my pet. It just seemed wrong. But I had no choice in the matter, at the time.)

As you might imagine, all of that sort of put me off of the idea of ever having sheep as an adult. But. I got Border collies. Now, I will say this is not my fault; Pepper forced me (FORCED me, I tell you) to fall in love with Border collies. It is futile to resist. It's part of her Evil Genius. So once I fell in love with Pepper - which I will remind you was not my fault - more Borders were an inevitability. And then I found myself on an Internet chat board-o-BCs. And then I got sucked into the world-o-BCs a little bit more and a little bit more... and suddenly one day I was taking my dog for training. And then - quite by accident, I assure you - I got another BC, this one bred out of a good working farm dog belonging to a friend of mine, and by [cough cough] the dog who won of the 2007 National Cattle Dog Finals (and placed in the top 10 in 2008).

Still, I thought I was safe. Ignorance is bliss, and all that. After all, I had no place to keep sheep. I have no sheds or outbuildings, and as I live on a ridge, not enough flat land for stock pens. But I did not figure on The Power of the Border Collie. I look back on it now and shake my head at my childish innocence. I'd only had my stockdog pup for a year when The Worst happened.

I got sheep.

It certainly looked like an accident. A client who had to downsize her flock offered me some registered Shetlands "for free". A neighbor who used to have sheep (but had gotten out of them for a while) had been missing having sheep on her farm and was willing to trade chores and board for lambs. Suddenly I found myself riding in a pickup truck, hauling a stock trailer into a farm yard and wondering when, exactly, I had gone completely insane.

I'm still not sure when it happened. I AM fairly certain that it was sometime before I found myself helping two other women wrestle a large and annoyed ram by his (rather impressive) horns into the stock trailer. And it was definitely before we all started tackling a series of ewes who were the approximate wildness and agility of your average mule deer (although luckily, not so tall). It was certainly before I was helping my friends unload the sheep into their new pen. But by then it was too late. Bemused, I asked my sister: "When did I become a farmer?" She said: "You've always been a farmer. You just haven't always had livestock."

So, in went my new ram with my new ewes, with the hopes of producing tasty little lambs in the spring. Because, in the many years since I reared 4-H bottle lambs, I'd made two discoveries: One, I like the way lamb tastes. A lot. Especially if it's Shetland, which really does have a distinctly different flavor from the usual market breeds. And two, I STILL don't think it's right to eat bottle babies... but I have a lot less objection to eating lambs bred for production, reared by their own mothers, and not made into pets.

So, come spring, there was lambing. Here are two of my ewes, plus one lamb (daughter of the brown ewe, Nutmeg). For the uninitiated, in Shetlands, "brown" is referred to as "moorit" (which is probably Gaelic for something much more elegant than merely "brown".) This lamb - a ewe lamb, which means one I won't eat and therefore named - was quite huge, literally twice the size and weight of the other lambs. Hence we call her Gigantor. Don't ask me why she's eating a feather. Probably she'd already disposed of the rest of the bird and is using it to pick the bird fragments out of her teeth. Just in case there should be any awkward questions later on, or maybe forensic investigation for incriminating evidence.

This is Zena with her spotted lamb. He was a little weak at the start, so we put him in a lamb sweater. Lamb sweaters are made of Army-surplus neck-gaiters with leg-holes cut in them. Wool, nnaturally. (What else? No self-respecting sheep would be caught dead in, for instance, cotton - or, God forbid, poly-pro.)

The black ram-lamb. We started him in a sweater too, but he took it off. Maybe he thinks wool is itchy.

Gratuitous picture of adorable baby goats of Wildwood Farm, which may be the only thing on earth cuter than lambs. They may also be the only thing brattier than Gigantor.

Aaaand, more of Gigantor (whose middle name should be Houdini, as she has demonstrated quite a talent for escape, mainly by squirting through the square wire. You'd think that would be over now, as she's much bigger, but she still makes escapes from time to time. I don't know how. Levitation, perhaps.) I told you. Bratty.

This is my ram, Trinity.

Now, here I must pause to say that rams in general can't be trusted and most of them are right pains in the arse (or knee, or hip, or wherever they decide to - well, ram you). Trinity, however, is the kindest, calmest, most good-hearted and gentle ram I've ever met. This is not to say I ever really turn my back on him or completely trust him. It's also not to say he's okay with you taking his ewes away (which we do in order to control when he breeds them, so that we don't have lambs too early in the chilly Alaskan spring). In fact, come late summer, when he's getting a little rammy and starting to think amorous rammy thoughts, he isn't really even okay with you taking the chickens out of his pen. (Don't ask me why the chickens like to hang out in his pen, but they do. Also do not ask me what, exactly, he thinks he might DO with the chickens, but suffice it to say that he Is Seriously Not Okay with you taking them out of his pen). However... if you, say, want to bring him food or water, he stands back politely as you enter the pen, and then follows at a respectful three-foot remove, waiting patiently for you to fill his manger and walk away before he goes into his gluttonous, I'm-being-starved-here, they-haven't-fed-me-for-a-month act. Also, once you get your hands on him (for shearing or worming, or to have his feet trimmed or his blood drawn), he's really pretty tractable - easier in temperament than any of the ewes. Even easier yet in that he comes equipped with a pair of useful handles, in the form of those nice full-curl horns. The shearer loves him; she says he's amongst the easiest sheep she's ever shorn (AND she can't say enough about how nice his wool is). Plus, he never went after me for treating Nutmeg when she had eclampsia, even though they were penned together. Still.... even Trinity isn't above trying to run down a stockdog, and I never lose track of where he is when I'm in the pen.

Now that you see how handsome he is, can you blame me for wanting more ewes for him? Besides... lamb. Yum. And wool. Nice wool. Sheep to work my dog with. And maybe some dairying... sheep cheese.... sheep-milk soap.... sheep-milk yogurt.... sheep milk in my coffee.... D'you think I can make sheep-milk ice cream? And no, I am NOT psychotic. I am blinded. By sheep lust.