Another Heart Beats

Another Heart Beats

Emmet was laying in the straw, his ear against Martha’s chest.

“Her heart is beating steady,” he reported.

Martha, his favourite sheep, was laying on her side huffing and blowing. The sheep manual said ewes usually stood up through their labour. We knew something was wrong but as hobby farmers we were too inexperienced to know what. This was our second year on our small holding but our first lambing season. Martha was the first sheep we had purchased. Emmet brought her home a week after we moved in and named the big Longwool after his favourite sister. I thought that was a bad idea at the time and now that Martha was poorly, thought it an even a worse idea. The original Martha had died in a car accident.

Martha the sheep had been spoiled rotten. The rest of the flock could forage but Martha was fed from a bucket. She was shorn in neat, even rows while the others got haphazard hairdos. Martha was scratched behind the ear when she butted you instead of being pushed away. And when Martha escaped by crawling under the electric fence she was a clever girl, not a pain in the ass - despite the complaints of our neighbours.

But right now, she wasn’t very clever at all. I leaned over the railing of the isolation pen we had moved her to.

“We could drench her,” I suggested. “With the lambs due so soon she might be low on minerals. Shall I make a run to the farm supply store?”

“I think I’ll ring the vet,” Emmet answered. I sighed. Our hobby was turning out to be expensive.

I cast my eyes over the rest of the flock – nine other ewes. We’d bred them all and expected twins from two of them, including Martha. One of the others looked uneasy, staring up at the barn roof and curling back her lip. Maybe she was going into labour. Hopefully, she wasn’t also going to drop onto her side. What if they all went down? Had we done something horribly wrong? And how would Emmet cope if that happened? I shook my head, trying to clear it of worries.

Emmet put away his phone and stroked Martha’s head. She looked like she’d like to nip him but didn’t have the energy.

“The vet says get some drench and she’ll email us a prescription for an injection. She’ll stop by when she’s finished where she is now,” Emmet told me.

“Does she expect us to do the injection?” My intestines clenched at the thought. We had needles and syringes in our barnyard first aid kit but we’d never used them. ‘Every day is a school day’ I told myself and it certainly had been since we left the city to this new life. Today, felt like an exam I hadn’t studied for though.

My husband shrugged. “I guess so.” He patted Martha’s belly and she groaned. “Could you go to the shop now?”

I doubted he’d be this concerned if I was pregnant.

At the farm supply, I picked up two bottles of drench in case any other ewes needed a tonic and showed the prescription on my phone to the cashier. She mumbled something about having to check with the manager.

Five minutes later, after a substantial queue had formed, she returned. “We need a printed copy of the prescription for our records.”

“Can I bring it in later? One of our ewes really needs the medication now.” I was more anxious about Emmet than Martha to be honest. I didn’t know how he would manage if he lost his favourite sheep.

The cashier made a face. “We need the printed copy before we can sell the product.”

I could hear grumbling in the queue but I was determined not to leave the shop without the medication.

A bloke three people behind me shouted out, 'Have her email you the scrip and print it out yourself.' I think he added, ‘FFS’ on the end but that bit was mumbled. There were murmurs of agreement from impatient farmers. The cashier didn’t stand a chance against the line of men in coveralls and wellies caked in manure. I flashed them a smile of gratitude as I left the store with drench and a vial of mineral injection.

Neither Emmet nor I had ever given a drench but the instructions on the bottle told us to put the tube down the sheep’s throat and squeeze. Between the two of us we rolled Martha onto her sternum and, with hope that we were in the oesophagus and not the trachea, poured down the drench. Martha coughed and then managed to stand so that she could aim a kick at one of us. As Emmet was stronger, he pressed her against the fence slats while I stabbed her with the mineral injection. She ground her hoof into my foot, leaving an imprint on my wellington boot. Limping, I climbed out of the pen and returned to the main flock.

The ewe I had noticed star gazing earlier was now turning in circles and giving low bleats. As I watched, a water sack appeared.

“Look Emmet, the sack!” He turned away from Marth long enough to notice it and nod in acknowledgement.

We waited for our first lamb to appear. The evening grew colder as the sun set. I plugged in the kettle and made us both cups of tea, plucking out a piece of straw that had settled in my cup. As I warmed my hands on my mug, I kept my eyes on the expectant ewe.

Emmet stayed with Martha. This reminded me of that night in the hospital after his sister’s accident. He had stationed himself by her bed, holding her hand, willing her back to consciousness. For hours he had sat, listening to the beep of the heart monitor until it fell silent.

Would this Martha’s heart continue to beat? The ewe had fallen back onto her side and her abdomen was bloating. Emmet pulled out his phone and rang the vet again. She was unavailable but would return his call when she was free. With a frown, he shoved the phone back in his pocket.

“I think we’re losing her.” His voice was low and choked. Damn, bloody sheep. She couldn’t do this to him. I wanted to pick up the ewe and give her a good shake. ‘Can’t you see,’ I would tell her, ‘that he can’t cope with another death right now?’ Instead, I crouched next to the pen and looked her in the eyes.

“Hey old girl,” I said but she did not respond. I glanced at Emmet. He shook his head and swallowed hard. He’d gotten so much better since we left the city and come out here to the quiet of the countryside. Caring for the sheep and planting vegetables had focussed him on growth and change. He said bringing new life into the world, in the form of lambs, would help him feel less guilty for the death he’d caused. If we lost Martha, would Emmet revert to that silent darkness he had fallen into? I wanted to crawl into the pen and hold him, to stand between him and his own feelings. I put one foot on the fence and began to step over.

“One of us needs to watch the other ewe,” Emmet insisted.

I paused, perched on the fence. “If that’s what you want me to do.” I searched his face. His jaw had locked and he avoided my eyes. “Okay. I’ll watch her," I said.

I moved over to the main paddock as the birthing ewe began bleating. She twisted her body a few times and then out slipped a lamb in a bile yellow sack. It looked nothing like the fluffy creatures on Easter cards. The ewe took her time wandering over to her offspring. I started towards the lamb but by the time I reached her, the ewe had begun to clear away the mucus from the lamb’s mouth. With vigorous grooming, the yellow slime was washed away and underneath was a big-eared baby with a long trailing tail. I had forgotten that sheep had such long tails. We’d need to sort that out later. In the meantime, the lamb, curled in the straw was as darling as a child’s stuffed toy. It bleated – a high-pitched, yearning sound. and the ewe answered in a low rumble. Back and forth they called, learning each other’s voices.

With great concentration, the lamb got its legs underneath it and tottered over to its mother’s udder and began to suck. Success.

“All good,” I called out to Emmet.

“Spray the lamb’s umbilical cord,” Emmet reminded me from where he knelt, stroking Martha’s flank.

I hustled to the supply cupboard and pulled out the blue spray and then rushed back to the lamb. Its mother eyed me but I managed to make a quick grab, spray the umbilical cord and return the sheepling to its mum before she knocked me down.

Emmet actually came over to the paddock, admiring our first lamb.

“Sturdy little fellow. We need to move mother and baby to a nursery pen.” He pulled open the gate and I herded the young family towards the exit while Emmet did his best to keep the other ewes from escaping. It was like trying to damn a river with a twig but we managed in the end.

“Oh no,” I said as I scattered straw around mother and babe. “She’s got another water bag coming out. This must be the other ewe with twins.” I had forgotten to check her ear tag.

“You’re not supposed to move them when they’re still in labour!” Emmet snapped.

“I know,” I said through gritted teeth. We had never done this before and there were bound to be mistakes. Especially as I was mostly doing this on my own with him glued to Martha’s side.

Emmet had his arms folded across his chest, glowering at me.

“Go back to Martha. I’ve got this.” He turned away before I even finished my sentence.

The phone ringing prevented further words. It was the vet. She said we had done everything we could but that she would try to swing by as soon as she could get away. Emmet thanked her and stared across the barn, taking in the eight ewes in the main paddock, calmly chewing their hay, grinding their teeth methodically side to side. The odd bleat sounded. Outside an owl hooted and we could hear the neighbour’s dog barking from two fields away. I watched the ewe I was with and waited for the final throes of labour. She continued to groom the lamb she already had, unperturbed by the contortions of her own uterus.

There were a few grunts and then the next lamb slithered out onto the straw. Mum didn’t even turn around, drawing her tongue over the progeny she already had before her.

“She’s not doing anything.” I got no reply. “Emmet!” I shouted.

“Clear it’s mouth and give it a rub with some straw,” he replied. I didn’t want instructions. I wanted him to help me. Beneath my wool jumper and body warmer, sweat trickled down my spine but there was no time to argue. After pulling on a pair of gloves, I yanked open the pen and pulled the mucus away from the lamb’s mouth and nostrils. Then with vigour, I rubbed it was the bedding we’d laid down in the pen earlier. I didn’t know how hard I should rub, resuscitating a lamb was another new skill I was being forced to learn this evening. The manual had mentioned swinging the lamb so I picked it up by the hindlegs and swung it back and then let it flop down onto the straw. I hoped the impact of hitting the straw would shock the lamb’s respiratory system into action. It worked. A weak cough occurred and then a breath and finally the necessary bleat. This caused the ewe to wander over and inspect the twin. She gave it a few swipes with her tongue before returning to her first lamb.

The vet arrived as I was rubbing the ignored creature clean with a towel. She handed me the drying spray (I’d forgotten again) and declared I was doing a grand job. A flush of accomplishment warmed me in the cold barn. I had hoped that this lambing business was something my husband and me could do together but it seemed I was managing fine on my own. I was left with the lamb while the vet crouched next to Martha. A few words were exchanged with Emmet. I saw him nod and then the vet went over to her bag and pulled out a bottle and a syringe.

“Wait!” I called, “are you putting her to sleep?”

“No,” the vet said, “I’m giving her a sedative and we’re going to try a c-section.”

“Here? In a barn?” I realised how stupid I sounded as soon as it came out.

“That’s where it usually happens with farm animals,” she replied with a laugh.

“See if you can get that lamb to suckle. We’ll need you to help us,” Emmet instructed.

Wobbling but upright, my lamb managed to totter to its mother and find the udder. The ewe glanced at it in surprise but stood still for the feed.

Martha was already on her side but she relaxed when the injection was given. Emmet had clipped a section of wool at the site the vet had indicated and I splashed the area with disinfectant. Then, just like that, the vet sliced through the flesh, reached in and pulled out a lamb. It was handed to me and I, an old hand now, scrubbed it with a towel, after making sure the mouth and nostrils were clear.

And then another lamb. Same procedure. The vet began stitching up, using suture material and instruments that Emmet had handed to her.

“Make up some formula for the lambs,” she instructed.

“Martha won’t be able to feed them then?” I asked.

She sat back on her heels and looked at Emmet. “Martha’s gone I’m afraid.”

It went very quiet in the barn. All you could hear was the sheep chewing. I put down the formula and watched my husband. He wiped his face with his hand and then stood up and turned away from us. I heard him whisper, 'It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have bred her.'

His sister’s death had been his fault too. She’d called him from a club that night and asked him to pick her up. It was two in the morning so he told her to take a taxi. Instead, she’d gotten a lift from a friend, a drunk friend.

“Death is part of farming,” the vet said. “She was an older ewe and most farmers would have sent her to the knackers next year anyway. You gave her a chance and now you have her lambs to carry on with.” She took one of the sheeplings from me and put it in Emmet’s arms. I rushed to get a bottle ready.

He sat on a haybale, the lamb in his lap. I handed him the bottle and he offered it to the tiny creature. After a few attempts, it got the idea and began to suckle. I watched him hold the small body against himself.

“It’s going to live,” he said, looking up at me. “I can feel its heartbeat.”