The Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  When you have animals you have to be ready to deal with any emergency, day or night. We had a terrible incident with a cow one night. Clive’s got a gay good eye for when a cow’s going to give birth: he can spot the signs. He usually tells me that I’m about to go into a labour before I know myself. The cow starts ‘panching’, trotting up and down, restless, can’t bide herself. He says I do that: when I start getting ratty, impatient and busying myself with all manner of household chores, he knows I’m near.

  Anyway, we had put three or four cows in the barn ready to calve, as the last thing we wanted was for any of them to calve away in the pastures in case anything went wrong. The cow in question was very unsettled and clearly unhappy about being in an enclosed space, so we decided that she would be better off in the garth, which we can see from our bedroom window. We put her out and she headed for the corner, the stone wall giving her some privacy and shelter. We went to bed and awoke in the early hours to hear the most terrible bellowing. I have never, ever, before or since, heard a cow make such a harrowing, heart-rending noise.

  ‘What the bloody hell was that?’ Clive said. ‘I think we’d better ga an’ ’ave a look-see.’

  I could hear from the rattling sash windows that it had come on a bad night, with furious rain and clashing winds.

  The custom here is to leave everything we need in the kitchen in case we have to go out in the night: wellies with leggings still attached, coats, hats and gloves. We pulled everything on over our pyjamas, but as usual we couldn’t find a torch, so we nipped into the building, brought the quad bike round and aimed the headlights into the garth. As Clive said, ‘You wouldn’t have walked into that noise without knowing what it was.’

  I’ve been around a lot of cows, enough to know that something was badly wrong. We managed to pick out her eyes reflected by the headlights, and we went cautiously towards her, Clive carrying a stick. It soon became clear that the blummin’ cow had calved, she still hadn’t cleansed after the birth, but there was no sign of her calf – and she couldn’t find it, neither. She was beyond distressed. There was only one little hollow in the whole of the field and that’s where we found it, lying in about six inches of water: I peered into the mossy green pool and it was clearly dead.

  The cow was going mad and was inconsolable. The best we could do for her was to drag the calf out of the puddle and put it where she could see it. We now had a cow with a bag full of milk, and no calf to suckle. As soon as it was a civilized time, Clive rang a farmer down at Kirkby Stephen who sold calves, and off we went to get one. Our cow had produced a beautiful big beef calf, but what we needed was an altogether smaller calf to wear the skin of the dead one. The changeover was not going to be easy.

  Clive drove into the field on the quad bike and grabbed the dead calf from under the nose of the cow. She was not keen to part with him, and this was in our favour for persuading her to adopt the foster calf. Clive skinned the calf – much more difficult than skinning a lamb – to the unnerving accompaniment of the cow flinging herself at the metal gate to the field. She knew that we had her calf and she wanted him back. All we had to do was give her a replacement calf that smelt like her own, so we put the skin on the new calf. Usually we would have liked the introduction to have taken place in a confined space, but she was so upset we decided it was better to put the new calf in the field with her and then watch from a safe distance.

  Then it was a question of whether she would take to the new one. You never know if it will work. She didn’t realize it, but she had a line of spectators watching her: Clive, Robert, me and the kids. She acted quite confused for a bit and we didn’t know which way it would go. There is one thing worse than total rejection, and that’s utter indifference. If you get a cow or a sheep you’ve mothered a baby on to and it just ignores it, that’s a nightmare. Rejection gives you something to work on and quite often you can eventually get them to accept it. Total indifference means it will probably end in failure, and you’ll have to hand-rear the calf or lamb.

  She hovered about a bit looking perplexed. The calf looked pretty pathetic, a skinny little thing with an oversized jacket dangling from its meagre frame. She’d go to it, have a look, a sniff, then look around as if she was still trying to find the other one. Fortunately, the calf was very sensible and was not trying to force itself on her. Eventually she must have decided it was better than nothing and allowed it to suckle. There were sighs of relief all round.

  We hand-rear a few calves every year. We’re very successful with hand-rearing, but we only do it when necessary. Nothing beats being reared by a mother, whether it’s lambs, calves, foals or babies.

  Robert rang up from Sandwath one day to tell us a cow had calved before her time, and she’d managed to drop the calf in a load of muck. I don’t know what she was thinking: this sickly little calf was covered in cow muck, and the mother had no milk. The calf had the dome-shaped head, velvety coat and odd eyes that premature animals have.

  Robert put her in the footwell of the van and brought her up to Ravenseat. Clive was convinced that she would not survive – premature calves have a tendency to develop breathing problems or to be troubled with scour (diaorrhoea). But I always feel that where there’s life there’s hope, and give any animal my best shot. I put her in the porch with a fan heater and defrosted some colostrum (I keep a supply in the freezer for moments such as these). I then reared her on ordinary milk from the Co-op supermarket. We called her Ginger George, and she did so very well that we kept her into old age.

  When Raven was three we acquired another dog: Clive bought her a puppy for her birthday. A friend of his had a litter of Jack Russell cross Lakeland terriers and Clive chose one of these for her. We called her Pippen, and she’s a great little dog. We’ve been very lucky in having some wonderful dogs over the years, and the terriers especially live what can only be described as a perfect dog’s life.

  Roger Red, who came with me, was already elderly, but he remained active until his last breath, dropping down dead doing what he loved, working in the pens chasing sheep through the race. Deefa died in 2007. I went across the yard one autumn morning and up the stairs to the upper part of the barn where she slept, cosy in the hay with the warmth from the cows, horses and sheep below. She followed me down the stairs, not bounding as usual, but with a slow, unsteady gait. She followed me into the farmhouse and straight away curled up next to the range, on a bed of blankets and cushions where Pippen slept during the day. I went round my sheep that morning without her by my side, the first time she hadn’t shadowed me on my chores.

  When I returned to the farmhouse, I could hear that her breathing was laboured, but she wasn’t in distress. She was old, and I knew she was near the end. I hunkered down next to her, stroking her head, tears streaming silently down my face. It was over soon: she died peacefully and naturally, with me holding her. She’d been mine from a few weeks old, and we had never been separated, a faithful and dear friend. There is a deep understanding between a shepherd and a working dog, a bond forged from constant companionship and mutual reliance, and I felt her absence from my side for a long time. I couldn’t face moving her body immediately, so she stayed there all day, until Clive had dug a grave in the garden.

  Clive’s dog Roy never wanted to retire. Working dogs don’t live as long as pampered pets, but they live an action-packed life. As Roy got older, we acquired two new sheepdogs, Sky for me and Jess for Clive. But Roy was a worker, and nothing would persuade him to take life easy. He would trail behind, occasionally showing his displeasure at the young dogs’ exuberance. He had never been kennelled or tied up in his life, and he valued his freedom. Sadly, he had a stroke, and one side of his body became weaker. It was heartbreaking watching him struggling to stand, and we were beginning to consider the idea that this loyal, clever sheepdog perhaps deserved a more dignified end.

  Early one morning I looked out across the garth from the bedroom window and something caught my eye, a dark shape floundering in a wet spot a
mong the rushes. It was Roy. For reasons known only to himself he had decided to take a walk across the field and had keeled over in the mud. I went out, in my dressing gown and wellies, and picked him up. It was the only time that I had ever done that: he would never normally have tolerated it. He had lost a lot of weight, but he was still heavy. He put up no fight as I carried him back to the barn. He lay quietly in the straw, gazing at me with misted eyes.

  I went back to the farmhouse to clean up and get dressed, and talk to Clive. We knew his end had come. Roy had never travelled well, not even on the quad bike (he always preferred to run alongside), so to take him in the Land Rover to the vets’ would have caused him unnecessary stress. We went out to him, taking him some leftover sausages. Clive agreed with me that the time was right. I went back to the farmhouse to call the vet, but Clive stayed with him, never leaving him until the vet had been. I didn’t go back out to the barn until it was over. He was Clive’s dog and they had a very special relationship, right to the last minute.

  We have had other sheepdogs, and we love them all, but with some it goes very deep: any shepherd will tell you the same. Deefa and Roy were two who will always, always stand out in our memories.

  Chalky, another terrier, this time a pure Jack Russell, came into our lives as a companion for Pippen. We bought her from our local builder. She’s pure white, but there’s usually a grubby grey look to her, unless the children have decided to bathe her. She has a longer coat than most Jack Russells, which we reckon is a natural adaptation to the arctic conditions at Ravenseat. She and Pippen live perfect terrier lives, coming into the house for the occasional doze and to hoover up any food the children have dropped. They are outside the rest of the time, never on a lead unless the children are attempting to civilize them. The last job we do at night is to let the terriers out. They sleep in the straw or on the hay, and patrol the farmyard, keeping their beady eyes out for unwanted visitors, like rats.

  When I was first with Clive, he always had a packet of fags with him, and his way of coping with stressful times was to light up. I asked him about giving up, and he did try: he had a go with nicotine patches, but that meant he was wearing numerous patches and smoking at the same time. He tried cutting back. He has friends who can make ten cigarettes last a few days, but not Clive; it was all or nothing, and I soon learned that nagging made no difference. It wasn’t a deal breaker for me, because he smoked when I met him, and I accepted it as part of him.

  Every winter I lay in supplies in our dairy to see us through if the snow cuts us off, but no matter where I hid the stash of cigarettes, he always found them and smoked them. One winter, during a particularly bad snowstorm, he became so desperate for a cigarette that we had to dig our way out of Ravenseat. We battled through the ice and snow to get to Muker, only to find that the shop had run out of cigarettes, then on to Reeth where the shop was shut, and finally to Richmond, in thick snow, a round trip of fifty-four miles for his fags.

  Finally he gave up the smoking of his own accord. It was the day of the Tan Hill Show, and he started the day by getting a pack of twenty from the vending machine in the pub. Now, on show days you get some old chaps who spend the entire time in the pub, talking tups. One old boy, sitting next to the machine, spoke to Clive when he returned for another packet.

  ‘Yer back again?’

  ‘Aye, I’m having a couple o’ packets today, it’s bin a stressful sort o’ day.’

  ‘Two? Yer’ve bin back here for three.’

  That was when the reality of just how many cigarettes he was smoking became clear to him and he stopped. That was it, no nagging from me, no patches. He just quit. He’s never had a fag since.

  8

  Miles To Go

  The most magical time of year for me is lambing time, but it is also the toughest month of the year. We lamb our sheep late – spring is slow to reach Upper Swaledale – and many times our first lamb will arrive when there is still snow on the ground. It really begins in February when the yows are scanned after tupping to see if they are pregnant, and to see how many lambs they are carrying. Although we farm in a traditional way, we’re not against some modern technology. The yows are brought down into the pens and then run through a race where they are temporarily held while the scanning man uses an ultrasound scanner to determine if they are in lamb, and how many lambs each one is carrying. Each yow is marked according to whether she is carrying a single lamb, twins, triplets or no lamb at all (geld). This allows us to manage them accordingly: lots of grub for twins and triplets, meagre portions for geld yows.

  The aim is to have not too many geld yows and not too many multiples, with ideally each yow having one big strong single lamb which she can take away to the moor. The geld yows go away to the moor too and we hope they make up for their nonproductive year with twins the next. Old Jimmy always said, ‘Geld yows would nivver break a fella,’ meaning that a year off would give you a bigger stronger yow for next year.

  We shepherd the sheep very carefully all year round, but especially when there’s deep snow, when they are heavy in lamb. The stress can make them sick. There are two ailments they can get when they are in lamb. One of them is staggers, which is when their calcium levels drop. It’s an old name, and it’s a perfect description. The lamb is taking all the calcium. The yow goes off her food, then she gets a glazed look and wobbly legs, and eventually she keels over and will die. But it’s easily remedied. You warm a bottle of calcium solution to body heat and then with a syringe inject it under her skin, usually on her ribs, in a couple of places. Lo and behold, she’s up and running very quickly. We put a marker on her, because once she’s had it she’s susceptible again, and we know to keep an eye on her.

  The other ailment is twin lamb disease, and it looks similar to staggers but is caused by a drop in sugar levels, like diabetes. It occurs mostly in the yows that are having twins, so you keep a lookout. They will become blind and if you sniff their breath it smells of pear drops. We inject them with calcium and mixed minerals and feed them with treacle, my favourite stand-by. There’s no miracle cure, the prognosis is not good, but the nearer she is to lambing the better her chances.

  One year Clive brought a yow into the yard on the back of the bike. She’d gone down with twin lamb disease.

  ‘She’s knackered, she won’t survive.’ Clive is a glass half-empty kind of a guy. ‘Sham, she’ll ’ave a good lamb inside ’er, she’s scanned for two.’

  I said, ‘Let’s give ’er a go. I’ll give ’er some treacle and mess on with ’er.’

  ‘If thoo can mak ’er live you can ’ave t’lambs.’ He never learns, does our Clive.

  I did make her live. I went out to her in the barn so many times during the snow, giving her treacle, tempting her to eat. Eventually she lambed twins, one (the best) stillborn, and the other an incredibly weak tup lamb.

  Usually when a sheep has been sickening and has been nursed it cooperates, but not this old bitch. There wasn’t the slightest hint of appreciation. She steadfastly refused to let me milk her, put her foot in the milk jug every time, and would stomp all over me and her sickly lamb. She was horrible. Like I say, sheep have different temperaments, like humans. They’re certainly not all nice. But she survived, and so did her lamb.

  We always gather the yows down from the moor a few days before their due date. We know which are going to lamb in the first week as we rely on the age-old method of rudding our tups. This involves mixing powdered colour with oil to make a very thick paste (rud) that we smear on the tup’s brisket. Every day during tupping time (November to December) we reapply more colour and give our lothario a small bite of feed to keep his spirits high and lead in his pencil. The rud is transferred onto the yows’ rumps when mating and we change the rud colour about every eight days to help us predict when the lambs will appear, five months, minus four days, after tupping.

  The yows carrying multiples, twins and triplets, come into the barns to lamb. The majority of yows carrying singles will stay outsid
e but come down into the pastures where there should, we hope, be some spring grass and a bit more shelter from the elements.

  I oversee the yows lambing inside and Clive oversees the lambing outside. The barns are bedded up with straw and the racks filled with hay, and the yows soon settle down to the routine of life inside. Nature dictates that an animal will distance itself from its companions and find somewhere private and hidden to give birth, and obviously this is not possible when lambing inside a barn. So it’s very important to keep a close eye on which ones are lambing to avoid mis-mothering or abandonment. If two yows lamb in close proximity the lambs can get muddled up and perhaps be rejected. The yows are watched very, very closely by everyone, even the children who all know the telltale signs: panching, restlessness, an inability to settle, building a nest in the straw and, eventually, lying down and straining.

  The first visible sign that lambing is imminent is the protruding water bag, usually closely followed by a pair of front feet. After a few minutes a nose will appear, then in a short space of time the head, followed by the body. The yow will quickly spin round to begin licking and nuzzling her newborn. It’s a critical time, as the lamb may still be inside the membrane, and it’s vital that the combination of the yow licking and the lamb shaking breaks the sac so it can take its first breath. There is nothing worse than looking into the barn and seeing a big healthy lamb lying dead with the sac over its head. It could easily have been saved if someone had been there at the crucial moment.

  The majority of our sheep lamb without assistance, a watchful eye being all that is needed. A newborn lamb is soon on his feet (footed) and taking his first wobbly steps: his aim is to suckle and he must find the tit as soon as possible. A lamb that fails to suckle quickly loses strength as the first milk, colostrum, contains vital antibodies and energy. The dangers of lambing outside are that sometimes the weather and terrain can mean that a lamb is lost, either through being dropped down a bank or into a beck while taking those first faltering steps. A yow can be so intent on hiding away that she will lamb in the most unsuitable places, on the edge of a stream or amongst rocks and screes. A lamb will soon succumb to the elements if he doesn’t get that vital first feed and it’s these situations that Clive is watching for.