“Ram” is Also A Verb, Not Just a Noun

Here’s a recent photo of some of the ram lambs that we’re feeding corn and hay until late February, at which time they’ll head for the processing plant. They look innocent, don’t they?

Don’t you believe it.

Notice the green feeder panels around the hay bales, put there so the animals don’t climb all over the bales or waste food. The animals eat the hay they can reach; once they can’t reach any more, then Melissa or I ‘stir’ the hay, moving it from the center out to the edges where the lambs can more easily reach it.

This procedure requires that you turn your back on the lambs, and lean over the panel with a pitchfork, happily doing your job. Our lambs have not been castrated, which means they’re full of testosterone, which means they’re....feisty. They like to slam their rock-hard heads together for fun.

Remember it’s cold now in Minnesota, so if you’re going to be outside in 20 degree weather for 90 minutes, you need to dress for it. I was wearing a pair of thick insulated bib overalls, and I’m not a petite woman, so when I bent over the feeder panel, I presented a tempting...ahhh...target. One joker in the bunch couldn’t resist. While my back was turned, he moved forward, I’m sure egged on by the rest of the lambs, lowered his head, and rammed me.

Whoa! My hips slammed against the feeder panel, the rest of me pitched forward into the hay. I struggled up, sputtering, spitting hay from my mouth, and whirled to face the culprit. He was gone. He’d melted back into the group, and every single one of them looked at me in total innocence. “It wasn't me,” said forty pairs of eyes.

Grumbling, I turned back and kept working. That damn lamb did it again. I righted myself faster this time, and whirled around. By now some of the lambs couldn’t repress their snickers, and a few others looked worried, knowing they’d all be punished for the hijinks of one rowdy guy.

They were right. I delivered a scathing lecture on the ethics and wisdom of nailing the person who was making sure they had plenty to eat, and soon even the hardiest of the lambs was shuffling his hooves, and couldn’t look me in the eye. Good. I made my point.

I moved to the other side of the hay bale and finished my job. But when I left the pen, I passed a small group of snickering lambs, and I could smell trouble. Sure enough, one of them actually had the nerve to say, directly to my face, “Hey, nice target.”

It’s going to be a long, long winter.