I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed looking at endless discussions on livestock message boards.
“It’s down to 20 here, how do I keep my sheep safe”?
“They are predicting 10, will my animals be safe”?
Currently, I can’t see our firepit that sits 20 feet from our house. My phone tells me the ambient temperature is minus thirty-five. I don’t even bother with the windchill. It is cold, and I too am worried about the animals.
The chickens are locked up, insulated, secure. Yet the tight quarters cause some tension, and our Bantam rooster doesn’t make it. A sad casualty, the cause unexpected.
The ducks huddle in their shelter. They still come out to call for food, waddle through the snow. Honestly, they only care that their water is frozen; madly drinking everytime I empty ice and refill.
The goats are hardy, but wimps. Hay is piled up in their pen as they would rather stay warm, and dry then eat. Occasionally one will look out of the shelter, glaring at me, for I must be the cause of all this nonsense.
And the sheep. The sheep do not seem to heed weather service warnings to not be outside. They forego the shelter except in the most vicious wind, and even then they lay on the outside, benefiting from the windbreak. At night they lay in a ball of mixed wool, some hair. They rise as I feed, a comical dislodging of accumulated snow.
I can’t judge those who are worried about temperatures 50+ degrees warmer than mine; we all worry. I worry when it's cold. When it snows. When the hay gets low. When it’s warm. When it’s lambing. When it’s breeding. I swear when I don’t worry, something then goes wrong-just to remind me what a fragile balance farm life is.
But who doesn’t worry? Animals of course. I don’t believe they are incapable of worry. Their instincts would be useless without that ability. Watch a ewe try to get her baby to stand. Watch a doe keep herself between a kid and the rest of the herd. They worry. Some of our rescue sheep do nothing but worry. Brownie and Sue watch us everywhere we go. Heads down. Cautious. They run to food, but quickly move away if we approach anywhere too close. Despite best attempts, we can not assuage that worry.
What gives some pride, solace, and a smidge of confidence is in the latest cold snap, they aren’t worried. Of course when I come out to feed I hear the symphony of blats and baas that welcome me. Those are the sounds of contentment. Of knowing I will take care of them.
I don’t hear calls of concern, pain, misery when I sit at our back door and look out. I hear: nothing. They are safe, as warm as can be, fed.
Raising animals on a farm/ranch is a paradox. These animals that are not pets, that some will be food, are loved. Some misguided groups think shearing is abuse (don’t get me started on that line of non reasoning). Yet we take the greatest of care as we move, flip, and shear their wool.If a meat ram comes up lame, or sneezes, or coughs, we assess; yet in a few months he will go to butcher.
In many ways those contrasts mirror our environment. Two weeks ago it was 50 degrees. In two more it may be 40. Snow and ice make feeding, driving, living difficult-without them we will have drought and less pasture. We live with things that are challenging to reap the rewards later.
For now, I am staying inside. The house is warm, the dogs are snuggled in, the animals tucked away outside, the loom warped and ready, and hot tea simmering. And in a few days, it will be all new again.