Goodbye, Little Eeva

There are times that farm life is very sad.  It is always REAL – there’s no denying the muddy boots, the fragrance of barnyard wafting through the kitchen window, the aching back after shoveling manure, and the bruises after catching and vaccinating sheep.  Every day life on a farm is real.  And sometimes it really is tough.

Last Sunday morning, I went out to the pasture to check on the flock.  I walked through the flock, counting lambs.  Elina and her ram lambs were at the entrance but Eeva wasn’t near them.  That was unusual as the triplets still stay fairly close together while grazing.  Elina was calm so I thought Eeva was napping; I looked in the shelters and brush.  No Eeva.  I went back to the barnyard, looking in the barn.  No Eeva.  While a horrible knot grew in the pit of my stomach, I searched the pasture three times and the barnyard twice.  I had the thought that a bald eagle got her.  As the smallest lamb, she weighed just over 12 lbs.

With sadness, I headed toward the house to tell TH she could not be found.  As I turned to open the gate, I saw her lying in a corner of the barnyard.  The one corner I didn’t search.  I had the faintest hope that she was just napping but as I approached, she was completely still.  Little Eeva was curled up and looked as peaceful as a child’s stuffed toy.  She was dead.  I was devastated.  Sobbing, I scooped her up and brought her into the house.  We could find no signs of an animal attack, her belly was soft, no diarrhea, no cuts or injuries.  She had blades of fresh grass in her mouth.  So sad.

A few days earlier, we had weighed, vaccinated, tagged and banded lambs.  Everyone seemed to be doing fine.  Little Eeva was her spunky self.

I have read that lambs can suddenly die.  No symptoms.  After speaking with a few more experienced shepherds, we will modify our vaccination program next year, in case that was the cause.  This was a real aspect of farming which I would rather avoid.

I am a “glass is half full” sort of gal so I have been reflecting on all I learned from Little Eeva.  I learned that I can manage triplets and supplementally bottle feed a weak lamb.  I learned I don’t mind bottle feeding because I rather enjoy that little lambie running toward me when she sees me outside.  I experienced the immense satisfaction of aiding a tiny, frail lamb to make it through her first night when she likely would have died without intervention.  And I learned to let go of that one little lamb that I really hoped for – a brown spotted Finn ewe lamb.  Goodbye, Little Eeva.  You touched a lot of human lives in your short time on earth.  Thank you for all you gave us while you were here.