“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.

I Receive Very Disturbing News

Farmers get hurt in their work a lot. I’ve collected my fair share of bruises, cuts, and sore muscles, but as a result of one particular injury several years ago, I received some very disturbing news.

That fall I was feeding corn to a bunch of young sheep, and had to walk through the trees. I couldn’t see in the shade with my sunglasses on, so I took them off. Bad idea. I was so busy watching the ground to avoid stepping in sheep poop that I walked my open eye right into a tree branch. Ouuwweee!

“You have a corneal abrasion,” said my partner, Queen of Corneal Abrasions. "We should go to the hospital."

“No, I don’t. I’ll be fine,” I replied My eye burned all evening. I went to bed and writhed around so dramatically I was soon entangled in the sheets. “You have a corneal abrasion,” Melissa repeated, “and I’m taking you to the hospital.”

It’s a small town and a small hospital, so things are pretty quiet at night. The nurse was happy to have a visitor. I walked in with my hand over my eye.

She smiled. “I have to give you a vision test.”

“You’re kidding. I can’t open my eye.”

“Let’s test the eye you can open.”

When that was done she called the doctor. He looked about fifteen, and possibly had LED lights running around the base of his sneakers. He had a head cold and runny nose. He stood directly over me and my poor eye, sniffed loudly, then told me to open that eye. Don’t think so. It took both the nurse and the doctor to pry open my eye, then he dropped in some orange liquid.

The doctor then explained that when he shone a black light in my eye, the orange drops would make any scratches on the eyeball look green. Cool.

“Yup, corneal abrasion,” the doctor said. “You have a small green scratch.”

I didn’t know much about eyes and corneas, and began to worry. What if my eye never healed? What if I went blind?

“You’ll be fine tomorrow,” the doctor said. “Visit your regular doctor and the scratch will be gone.” Then before I could ask any questions, he was gone.

The next afternoon I visited my doctor. She put in the orange drops and shone the black light. No green anywhere. My eyeball was just fine.

“How did that happen?” I asked. “How can the scratch go away in just a day?”

My doctor explained that the cornea is always replacing itself. Enough new cornea grew overnight that the old stuff flaked off and the scratch was gone.

“But where does the old cornea go?”

“Some of it comes out your tear ducts,” my doctor said, “but most of it comes out your nose.”

Thanks so very much, Doctor.

Now I know that every time I grab a tissue, I am blowing my eyeball out my nose.

Calf Update


Last May we acquired a calf, a cute little brown thing with big eyes and a busy tongue.

Update: As you can see in the photo of Melissa and calf above, he’s now a huge brown thing with big eyes and a busy tongue. In case you’re wondering, calf tongues are wet, so being ‘kissed’ by a calf leaves a slobbery streak on your coat or jeans.

The calf remains unnamed, so we are proud of ourselves, since he’s slated to become meat next year. However, when Melissa calls ‘Hey, calf,” he comes running. Hmmm. Does that qualify as a name? He loves Melissa and is calm around her. When I show up, he kicks and jumps and lowers his head playfully. Sorry, not interested in playing with a 500-pound baby.

It’s been a challenge helping him fit in. He first lived with the female goats until he started mounting them. (Although he’s been 'fixed,' he mounts something—or someone—when he’s happy and excited.) So we moved him out on pasture with all the ewes. This worked for most of the summer, but then he started mounting the ewes.

Time for a change, so we put him in with the young ram lambs. This worked well. He’d try to mount the ram lambs, but they were still so small they could just walk away right underneath him.

Then it turned cold, and we worried he needed more shelter. Time to move him to the boys’ dormitory. Up at the big barn live two adult rams (Duncan and Erik) and two male goats (Owen and Peter.) When we first let the calf into the pen by the barn, the rams and goats took one look at the calf, said “Holy crap,” and ran to the far side of the pen, eyes wide, sides heaving. We are about to be eaten, screamed their body language.

The calf suddenly found himself in a new place without friends, which meant he cried for us a lot. Mooooommmm, he’d bellow every time Melissa or I went up to do chores. He could see the house from his pen, so whenever we stepped outside, it’d be Mooooommmmm. No one will play with me. Why won’t someone play with me? Nearly broke our hearts.

But life goes on.

The rams and goats relaxed. They discovered the calf wasn’t going to kill them. They discovered that he actually makes a great rubbing post. He’s fun to push up against and play with. He’s always up for a game of Run Around the Pen, Hop Up and Down, and Pretend to Bash Heads. And yes, he tries to mount them now and then, but they just shrug him off, whirl around and say “Cut it out. Let’s play tag.”

So, happy ending for now. He’s stopped bellowing for us and loves his new buddies. Of course, when breeding starts next month, the rams will be off with the ewes, more interested in sex than anything else. If the goats can’t keep the calf company while the rams are gone, I’m sure we’ll hear Mooooommmm for a few days.

Big baby.