In which Ginger doth protest too much

“The sheep have that pasture nibbled down to felt,” said the Farmer one day last week.


Now that our back two pasture fields have been tiled and planted, we no longer have as much grazing land for the sheep. There are two options: move them to the other side of the farm or supplement their diet with hay while the grass grows back. The latter is too expensive an option. The next day I came home from the work to find the Farmer had moved all the sheep up into the front and west fields, with the cows.

“They even sound happier now,” I commented. “But what about Misty and Donkey?” The horse and her friend stood at the fence watching the festivities on the other side – and probably planning a break-in. It’s not as though there wasn’t enough food left for them, now that they had the whole pasture to themselves. But they hate feeling left out and wondered what they were missing.

“Are they going to be ok over there without the Donkey?” I wondered aloud. So far this year we have only had one coyote strike, but one means they are watching and waiting for another easy opportunity.

The Farmer muttered something like “by the time we get a strike over there, the grass will be grown back over here and I can move them again.” I went out on the back porch and stared at the sheep. I thought about Gracie, who has twins of her own plus an adopted lamb on her. Her face has become so thin and elongated I didn’t even recognize her. And I thought of my little bottle-fed lamb, only recently weaned off milk, who still comes running whenever he hears my voice. I don’t want them to get taken by a coyote.

Finally I heard a big sigh and the Farmer came over to join me. “Ok, we can move the horse and donkey over there too. But remember last time? As soon as the horse arrived, the cows found a hole in the fence and left.” Oh yeah. I forgot about that. The cows hate having the horse and donkey around. A whole herd of sheep underfoot they can handle. But as soon as you introduce a big Belgian horse and a neck-biting donkey, they feel crowded.

I got busy weeding the garden while the Farmer trudged off to move the animals. Within about half an hour I knew they were in, because all I could hear was the loud protest of Ginger, bellowing repeatedly like a broken foghorn. I decided to go and have a look.

The sheep were nestled down for their mid-day nap, almost hidden in long grass under the shade of the trees. Most of the cattle were in the barn, where they also have a mid-day nap away from the high sun and the bugs. Donkey and Misty were standing in the breezeway, reveling in the wind blowing through, cooling their hot skin and blowing the bugs off them. They were also blocking entry to the part of the barn where the rest of the cows were sleeping. Ginger stood just outside, in the hot, wet mud, bellowing. She probably wanted to get in but she wasn’t going to risk brushing up against Misty or Donkey, for fear of getting a nip on her side. It’s really more humiliating than painful, I think. The only thing hurt is her pride. I told her she was being ridiculous and she snorted at me. Betty was resting on the far side of the barn with her calf, as if launching a passive-aggressive protest against the entire operation.

By sunset, everyone had “found their corners”, as the Farmer says, and it’s been quiet ever since. It’s weird to look out the window and not see a single farm animal, however. I’m sure the neighbours can do without all the mooing but they have said before they like to have the lambs up in the front field where they can see and hear them.

I’m just hoping they don’t get an up-close-and-personal visit from a certain angry cow and her calf, looking for a corner of the meadow to call their own.

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