Serial Lamb Killer

Round one is done.
I reek of lanolin and guilt. I gathered up my first sheep I ever got and loaded her up. She's a rare type of jacob with 5 horns and a free spirit that really made me hate her as she showed her follower sheep buddies how to scale my ramshackle fence with a single leap. I've had her for 4 years now (?) and she's been with me through 4 different rams and only gave me one baby. I loaded up her one baby next, a ewe lamb from last year that was just guilty by association.
Then I loaded up a shetland sheep I bought at auction a few years ago who only had one ear from an angry dog who didn't care too much for her wild tendency of not being contained by the fence. So a frustrated foster dog I had decided to prove herself to me by thrashing around with this shetland in the creek, the dog showing the sheep and thing or two about what destruction a four legged creature could do with a set of canine teeth and some strong jaws. A week later, the sheep got out again. Brainless.
After these three easy picks, I had trouble. I guess I grabbed the little lamb from last year, the daughter of the shetland who had the same wild streak and inability to listen to fences. Then I had a tiny bit of space in my crate for one more, another lamb born on the farm that I had no feelings either way for.

With a bleating truckbed full of unsettled feelings, I headed up, stopping for coffee at the gas station on the way. In the back of my mind, I know that going to auction without ear tags meant probably just a hop and a skip away from the slaughterhouse. :( But my free spiriting ways meant that I didn't care too much for registering my sheep as I didn't foresee this day ever coming. I thought for some reason that I'd just keep building my flock and running between buying a new ram each year and picking up boxes full of delicious meat from the butcher along with the hides hidden out back for me to tan.
So in the back of my brain, I felt like I was marching my creations to their death. And not the same way that I take the boys to slaughter.... not because I hate boys, which is the theory my assistant has, but because I didn't anticipate slaughtering these ewes. I had a conscience like a serial killer walking into the gas station, in a different frame of mind, feeling very apart from my own body as I drew a cup of coffee by the people who were just going to another day of work. ABBA played a happy tune and it seemed like the calm in a movie scene where you just know something is going to happen so your skin pricks up and you're more alert than usual.

The auction yard is not a happy place. It's filled with the feces and urine of a million animals who walked through those gates, and not in the same way that the butcher house is. These animals are the unwanteds who weren't even worthy of freezer space.
I remember going to the auction with happy anticipation and getting caught in the rush (thereby paying waaaay too much) of bidding on animals that I had no idea the history of. And then one by one bringing them home for them to just die 2 days later or learning of some new disease that I just inherited from the auction lot. God bless Jason and the 22 on several occasions where my impulse ran away with my reason and I ended up with a big problem. Those animals didn't get fruit trees. They rest in the swamp out back where I hope to only remember them by a twinge of what not to do and passing the warning onto others. Don't buy at the auction.
But there I was, dropping off my ewes, no registered ear tags so therefore, no sane person would put them into a breeding program. So they were to be put on display, prodded at, yelled at, and then scuttled away for the next lot, unaware at their future.
But then again, what do sheep think of the future anyway.

I've read a lot of farm books, usually of the happy times where people are getting their first chicks and harvesting their first carrots, building fences, rebuilding barns. I wonder where are the farm books that are the other side- the flock that's ravaged by the weasels and hawks leaving the empty chicken house, or the fences that are broken and can't be fixed, or the gardens that are eaten by the goats and so you sell them to the first person with $50 on craigslist.
Yeah, so I'm not sure if I would read that book, even if it was a very poignant warning against buying auction animals (except for mine) or not securing your chicken house correctly. Who thinks about putting their tail between their legs and leaving the country life for a shitty little apartment on the upper east side, surrounded by pictures of ghosts of sheep and chickens from the past.

I think this feeling will pass. Moving in 2 days. Probably just nerves anyway.