Ole Mamma sheepa died under the apple tree in the orchard, the one with the tree house in it. Her lamb and her adopted lamb sat with her all day. They called for her in the morning, after she was buried.
We tied a bell on her collar about a month ago. She wandered away from the herd, trailing her two lambs behind. Pacing and pacing a senile path over the food. She rounded the pond continuously, not remembering where she’d been, not sure where she was going. We found her one afternoon home in the yard. Her real lamb had escaped with her. Her cud was a gooey mess on her lips. Her hip bones jutted out, her body concave. She could hardly take solids anymore.
The rest of the herd stayed below in pasture, including her adopted lamb who kept looking for her. The adopted lamb’s birth mother had suffered prolapse severely early in the season. We kept her alive as long as we could- but that is a sad tale for another day. Ole Mamma took that lamb under her wing, mothering it, comforting it, bedding down with it at night. Her mothering was strong, for her own and for lambs lost in the herd. She adopted a lamb and nursed it with her own the season before.
We locked her and her birth lamb in the hay storage. She could eat all day if she wanted, but she paced and paced, nervous, her bell ringing all day long. Enough to drive me mad. She was a good ole sheep. I was relieved it didn’t come to shooting her.