Fun with Sheep

Yesterday, I put sheep in a head lock and fed them worm medicine. Today, I put on a clean t-shirt and talked cheese to customers at a new farmers market. I honestly love that my days can be so unpredictably different and full of new things that have the potential to scare me. 

The end of breeding season for most of the sheep arrived yesterday. I was told we would be resorting and grouping the sheep based on a system that my feeble mind just barely understood. Then, I heard that we would be “worming.” I had no idea what that meant, but I was frightened. I’ve never had my own pet. So, for me, hearing about someone’s pet having worms gives me the same sick shiver of repulsion that a woman who’s never had a baby gets every time one of her newly pregnant friends talks about child birth.

Worming actually wasn’t that awful. All it involved was shooting a syringe full of milky-colored preventative worm medicine into the sheep’s mouths.  After each sheep was lured into the milking parlor with the promise of grain, we waited until they had sated their hunger from the feed buckets. Then, knowing that asking nicely wouldn’t work, we hooked our arm under each sheep’s head and tried to control their squirming a bit. As quickly as possible, we tucked the syringe into the corner of their mouths and just as they had opened up, ejected the contents of the syringe into the back of their throats. That was the easy part.

Then the sheep had to be sorted into several groups all over again. We recorded the colorful markings on the backside of the sheep that had finished breeding (the marks, as you will recall, are colors that corresponds to the marker harnessed to each ram, indicating that a given ram has had its way with an ewe). Brad and Meg called out each ewe's tag number and the marking color on her butt for me to record. "10137. Green! 8096. Blue! 10058....(pause) Blue, green, yellow and red!?" One ewe apparently approaches breeding season recreationally. She wins.  We had to pull out all the bred sheep and send them out in one big group to the far pasture. Their work for the season is done. We also had to sort out the sheep that had not had any visible markings on them in the last month and place them with a “clean-up” ram to have another go just in case they hadn't gotten knocked up. 

In an exercise that encouraged teen pregnancy, we then guided the younger, chaste sheep into groups and let them have their first crack at breeding with a couple new rams. It was essentially the same process we had accomplished with the older ewes 34 days prior, except this time we would be corrupting a new generation.

Each group had to be led out to pasture separately and guided to different fenced areas. This time there were several more moving parts, as well as many young sheep that had never been through the process before and had never even seen the milking parlor. The young ones were nervous, twitchy, and needed a lot of guiding through each step. The rest hate when they deviate from routine. All the confusion and cornering of sheep to sort and re-sort groups at times led to a melee of chasing, charging, and boxing out. When one sheep wanders off confused, much strategy or bribery with grain is required to guide it to the correct spot. Even then, a skittish sheep might be a hopeless cause until it calms down. Sheep don't do anything intuitively unless it’s with the rest of the flock. At one point we had to bring back an entire flock of sheep from pasture in order to get four sheep that had been left behind to go where they needed to. They had no idea what to do without the rest of their friends.

At first, I was completely unsure of how to get the sheep to move or not move. I mostly just reacted very slowly and stupidly to what needed to be done. Eventually, I think I became a bit more useful (I hope). I kind of understood how the sheep could be wrangled and lured. I ended the day covered in worm medicine and wet sheep. I have so so much respect for cheesemakers who have and care for their own animals; or hell, pretty much anyone who has their own animals. From worms to forced copulation, it’s hard work. People ask me all the time if I want to actually make cheese someday instead of just sell it. I say sure, I love cheesemaking, much more than I even thought I would. Then they ask me what animals I’d have on my farm. And I laugh in their face. I love the experience with the animals, and I enjoy feeling less helpless around them with gained experience. But I just don’t know if I have it in me to care for my very own.

And about that new farmers market: Last Saturday was sadly the last day for my St. Johns market in Portland. I’m still in withdrawal from that delicious bread from the bread guy. I savored my last breakfast bun until it became stale. I loved the people at that market (the vendors and the customers) and really looked forward to my Saturdays. Now, I’ll be attending the market in Puyallup, Washington on Saturday mornings instead, which seems like it will be equally enjoyable. The market is longer (5 hours), but is generally much busier than any of the others I’ve worked in the Northwest. The time passes quickly and there is plenty to see, eat, and buy. During the peak, there are 150 vendors. It is the end of the season, however, so there is only about half that amount right now. Today was an unusually slow customer traffic day for this particular market, so I hope I’m not bad luck. Also, I don’t get hooked up with awesome bread and vegetables like at St. Johns. In fact, the bread vendor sucks and the Mexican food across from me is way overpriced ($4 for an empanada that tastes like a 75 cent doughnut?!). At least there’s pie from a boisterous pie guy who’s been making pies since his 4-H days in the 1950s. I look forward to trying that next week. 

I promise, someday soon, more pictures.