Soay Sheep and Lambing Season
Articles by SOA Members about the Joys of Lambing Season
The Magic of Lambing Season
by Ronda Jemtegaard
Several years ago I was awakened by the sound of a ewe in distress. It was lambing season and the calling I heard had the distinct sound of a ewe that had lost her lamb! I threw on my coat and boots, grabbed a flashlight and went outside. It was 3 o'clock on a clear February night and I was easily able to follow the sights and sounds to the scene in one of our pastures, where I found my son's black Soay ewe had given birth. Another ewe, whose time was imminent, apparently felt that the newborn lamb should be her own, and was making a loud and determined attempt to take it. I shooed her away, and inspected the lamb, which had been cleaned up and was not quite dry. I determined the gender of the new lamb with the aid of my flashlight, then stood nearby until the bawling ewe left. It was apparent that the new mother was in labor again with the second of twins, but she didn't like my flashlight, so I turned it off. I could have gone back to bed; there were no problems and I was not needed. But I couldn't bear to leave this incredible scene! I was only about 6 feet away, and the time passed quickly while I enjoyed the peaceful clear night, the moon, the absolute quiet that daytime never affords, and the occasional soft grunts of a ewe in labor. After some time I heard the slippery sounds of a lamb being born, and then listened to the ewe quietly talking to her new lamb while she cleaned it up. All I could see was a black silhouette of the ewe and her lambs. Even so, it was magical to listen to this miracle of life and be right there as it happened. Once I sensed that the ewe had cleaned her youngest lamb up sufficiently, I turned on my flashlight just long enough to determine the gender of the new one, then walked back indoors, secure in the knowledge that both lambs were being well cared for. A mere hour had passed by since I had dashed outside, but it was one of the most magical hours of my life! © SOA 2005
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Monet
by Ronda Jemtegaard
New shepherds (and shepherdesses) make mistakes; it's a fact. Hopefully we learn from them, and go on to mentor other new shepherds and shepherdesses. In that spirit, I am sharing this story:
In one of my earlier years of owning sheep we had an especially cold and windy day; the kind that knocks your breath right out of you. I noticed that one of my youngest ewes had given birth to her first lamb out in the middle of the pasture. I had hoped that she would lamb inside the barn as many, but not all, of my ewes do during our worst weather. (Please note that we have not ever lost a lamb to cold weather, so why I was concerning myself about this can only be attributed to that "worried mother" syndrome.) I rushed out to the pasture, trying not to get blown over myself, and picked up the literally "blown-dry" newborn lamb. There is a method for luring a new mother into a barn or lambing pen, in which the lamb is held close to the ground, and the shepherd backs slowly toward the barn or wherever you are trying to lure the ewe, and the ewe will follow her baby to wherever you want her to go. Because ewes know that lambs don't fly, they are likely to "lose" the lamb if you just pick it up and walk upright with the lamb in your arms, and the ewe will then run back to the place where the lamb was last on the ground. If this happens, go back to that place and start over, by bending over, holding the lamb close to the ground, and backing toward your destination.
I tried this method again and again, but no matter how many times I tried, the new mother would follow only as far as the barn door, and then run off. I finally decided to remain in the barn, and let the lamb call for its mother, hoping that would do the trick. The mother would come only so far, calling for her new daughter, and then back off. After a good ten minutes of this, listening to the barn creak frighteningly in the fierce wind, I came to the conclusion that since I was more than a little concerned about remaining inside this creaky barn (what if it was blown down?) that the ewe must surely know what she was doing. "Okay, you win." I said to the new mother, though I doubt that she heard me over the gusts, and I brought her tiny daughter back to her. I watched them for a time; they continued to bond in the usual manner, and I ducked my head down and headed as best I could back to my own creaky house. I named the lamb Monet (it was the year I used artists names) and the buyer was told the story of this hardy little American Soay lamb born on such a harsh spring day! Years later, Monet is his favorite ewe. The moral to this story is that Soay ewes know best, even first time mothers. © SOA 2005
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