I drive by the sheep farm on County Road 43 and slow down to
watch the lambs chasing each other across the barnyard. That’s the part I miss.
I don’t miss having to help a ewe with a difficult birth, or trying to convince
her to mother her young or allow them to suckle. I don’t miss sick lambs and
lambs that die in your arms. But even though it kept me very, very busy at
times, I do miss bottle feeding the baby lambs. Having them recognize me and
follow me around the barnyard, bleating for a bottle.
I also miss my horse. She and I didn’t do a whole lot
together, because I really don’t know my way around a horse. I grew up just
down the road from the Williams’ farm on Johnston
so I occasionally got up on a horse and never had a bad experience. In that way
I don’t have a fear of horses, so that’s good. But I don’t really know what to
do with them and I have no idea how to train them. So Misty had a rather
relaxed existence here on the farm. She spent her days hanging out with Donkey,
who took the place of her sister Ashley when she died suddenly of a fever, or
from eating toxic tree bark, or from an allergic reaction to penicillin – we
still don’t know which.
Having Ashley die on us after just a year in our care really
shook our confidence as horse owners. It’s quite a responsibility, this
extremely intelligent, strong, 1800 lbs of muscle waiting to be given something
to do, depending on you for its care and feeding. When Ashley left us – left
Misty, really – we decided to send our remaining horse away to be bred.
That didn’t work. The first sleep-away visit was to a
Belgian horse farm where the breeding is very controlled. The mare and the stud
(my apologies if I’ve got the terms all wrong – what do I know?) are kept in
neighbouring stalls, where they can smell, hear and communicate with each
other.
When the stud first introduced himself to Misty through the
wall, she gave it a sharp kick and snorted her disgust. The farmer kept a close
eye on the pair until Misty seemed to be softening up a bit in her response to
the male horse. Eventually they were brought out into the main room of the
barn, securely tied, and the male was assisted in jumping up on our female
horse. This farm does controlled breeding, they explain, so that there are less
injuries, the breeding is monitored, and the other horses on the farm don’t get
in the way.
Again, it didn’t work. Misty came home with her hide worn
off her hips from the stud’s hooves, and she also sported a new bad attitude
for a few days. The breeding didn’t take. The second attempt didn’t either.
Now Misty lives at Shermount Farms. I miss her but I am so
happy we made the decision to let her go. She is now with someone who knows
horses. Roy Sherrer has her hitched and pulling a wagon and even sent us photos
and video so we can see our old horse in her new digs.
Springtime is pretty quiet on the farm, now that most of our
cows have given birth. We have three cows yet to go but we don’t even know if
they are pregnant. They aren’t talking. At least it’s warm enough now that if
they decide to give birth beyond the barnyard, as the last one did, the calf
won’t freeze to death. I don’t think we have any coyotes around to terrorize
the new calves either. They left when they realized the sheep were gone.
No sheep to shear, no lambs to feed, no horse to brush. I
guess I’ll have no excuses about looking for time to weed my vegetable garden
this summer.
Email: dianafisher1@gmail.com
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