Feeling no pulse, I nooded to Howie and he helped me hoist Chop number 28 over the electric fencing and away from the surviving lambs. Scanning the last three for anything out of the ordinary, I strode out of the pasture unenlightened. The Veterinary Book for Sheep Farmers weighed jeeringly in my hands; should have read it more thoroughly. I scanned possible causes of death – white muscle disease, parasite load, swayback, and on and on. Symptoms can exhibit themselves, or, as I read on, the lamb/sheep could just drop dead with little outward sign.
What am I to do, I asked myself. Get them autopsied as they die and learn the long and expensive way? It seemed my only recourse. After following a veterinary clinic’s prescribed worming schedule, and clearning the four little guys of hoof rot, I knew I had navigated basic preliminary obstacles. A quick call to several clinics gave me options with regard to necropsies, and we scheduled a dropoff later in the day.
The day was young; Howie and his fencing crew began the work they’d initially come to build. Two crewmembers walked me 
over to their van, where two calves waited to be unloaded into our pasture. Sensing common values or perhaps desiring a great piece of meat, Howie had introduced us to an Amish acquaintance several weeks back. A dairyman, he had no use for twin bull calves and we said ‘Sure!’, we’ll give it a whirl. Detesting mowing has turned Michael and I into truly irrational people. Animals-as-grass-eating machines has yet to prove itself in our current arrangement.
Anyway, at roughly 70 pounds apiece, the three of use easily walked the guys into our south pasture. Conferring with yet another vet friend, Michael emerged from the house to announce that we should stall them for the intial period of changing their dietary intake. Weaned from milk about a month ago, the calves’ stomachs continue to develop, requiring a mixture of quality dry hay, some fresh grass, as well as calf starter feed (which appears to contain corn, oats and a molasses coating amongst other things – available at our local feed store).
Back into the two-acre pasture I went. Buckie allowed himself to be caught easily. Brown in the manner of a deer, with white face flash, his lower teeth (only teeth – the upper side consists of a hard palate) show slightly, earning him his name immediately. Lucky (so called because his testes never dropped, thus removing him from the call of castration) proved flighty.
Flighty in the manner of a quarter mile sprinter. After ducking the single poorly fenced part, he bolted behind the old barn, crossing into and out of the electrified chicken yard with ease, hooves flying him right on through the north pasture (also a couple of acres), until he met solid gate and fence at the complete opposite end of the farm.
All two-leggers trudged after, taking in signs of passage with growing alarm. Had he fled down into the woods? Out onto the busy road? Howie’s son Oliver pointed to the field’s end. Dark brown on grass green. Pursued and pursuers stopped for the moment, Howie and crew decided on the next most logical plan of capture: Build their fence job of the day to contain Lucky. A couple hours later, we were able to hustle mr. fleet foot into an exterior stall. The humor of Howie returned with his future 
dinner thus secured.
Turn for the worse – Chop number 26, the runt and cutest of the lot, took a turn for the worse during the afternoon. Ears flopped down, and remarkable lethargy showed me from across the way that all was not right. Upon a closer look, I noticed that all color had gone from his nose and inner eyelids. Knowing he had little chance, but wanting to prevent harm to the remaining two if possible, we called the vet clinic. Continued under “Super bugs”.
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