Pigs and Sunscreen

Wednesday, June 25th

noreply@blogger.com (Alison) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 21:42:00 +0000

Break

There are times when I feel like I can�??t work another day. This week, Monday was my last day of work before my two days off, and I woke up in the morning thinking, I can�??t do this. I don�??t want to get up today. My body ached; my lower back had been killing me for days. My muscles were tired and worn out and begging for rest. Sometimes I think, If one more rooster crows in my ear, if I get poop on my hands one more time, if I find one more scratch or bruise of unknown origin on my body, if I have to bend over to lift anything, anything, again�??I think I will go absolutely berserk. I have to go to bed before the sun sets to feel rested before a workday, and occasionally I think about other people my age, awake and full of energy at ten o�??clock at night, readying themselves for the club, for the bar, for a date. At ten o�??clock I am usually in bed, exhausted, listening as the hum of the fan becomes quiet, distant.

It is not only my body that feels tired. In truth, I find this job much more of a mental and emotional challenge than a physical one. My muscles were sore the first week I worked here, but they adjust themselves, they grow stronger. The bales of hay and the bags of feed feel lighter. Except for the end of the workweek, my body does not protest too much. My mind and my heart haven�??t quite caught up though, and they�??ve shown me they are slower learners than I thought they were. I keep waiting to find the switch, the magical switch that will allow me to shut of my heart and brain at will when something becomes too much to take in. On the isolated farm, everything I witness is absorbed in silence, and this can make strenuous moments feel so much louder.

I have heard the farm referred to as the �??vegan bubble,�?? and it�??s true. It�??s nice, most of the time, to be in this bubble. If someone offers me food, I never have to interrogate him about the ingredients; I know it is vegan. When I go out to eat with people from the farm, I never have to watch anyone eating a steak, or a chicken breast, or a turkey sandwich�??I don�??t have to watch my friends being eaten. I never have to defend my lifestyle here. My veganism and my consideration towards animals are not seen as radical, bizarre, or ridiculous. The people who work and volunteer come from extremely varied backgrounds, but our love of animals and our desire to see them treated as the sentient beings they are bring us together. Here, I am just one link in that chain, one member of the group. The people with whom I work may be progressive and purveyors of change but, in my mind, they couldn�??t be any less militant or extreme. Being vegan simply means eating well and doing what we can to reduce suffering in the world.

But these people are activists. They have dedicated their lives to helping farm animals. They are, at least when it concerns issues surrounding farm animals, educated, well-read, and very aware. Out there, outside the �??vegan bubble,�?? it may be hard to find people who feel the same compassion I feel towards animals, but it is also easy to forget about all the suffering taking place. Out there, I do what I can, I do my part; I made the decision to change my own life and support companies that aren�??t cruel to animals, and that was that. In my everyday life, I am not part of a mission. I don�??t consider myself well-read or educated, and I feel like I am neither of those things by choice. The suffering that exists in the world affects me profoundly and, in general, I remove myself from the flurry of articles, photographs, and videos that are constantly appearing as proof of our cruelty to animals. I keep myself up-to-date on the bare minimum of facts: this ballot initiative passed, that undercover investigation exposed. I skim the surface of the animal rights world because digging any deeper causes me too much pain.

Living at Farm Sanctuary, that distance and personal removal is simply not possible. The people working on the farm make sure they know what is going on in the animal rights world because it is their job and their passion. In Vegan House, at work, and at staff lunches, conversations often revolve around animal rights, the horrors of factory farming, and the laws and campaigns that are being developed to help induce change. Recently, a lot of the talk on the farm has been about the pigs stranded in flooded Iowa. Normally, I would be surrounded by people who didn�??t care about a thousand pigs drowning, dying slow deaths, in the middle of our country. But here, I�??ve seen the photographs, I�??ve watched video clips, and those images are haunting. Being confronted, daily, with the suffering of ten billion farm animals who die every year in the United States so that people can have meat on their plates�??that is more difficult to adjust to than any of the hard work on the farm. It often feels like we will never win this fight and that the suffering will continue no matter how hard we work.

I am always asking myself, How can I enact change? I often feel frustrated, inadequate, like there is nothing I can do. I can�??t take beautiful photographs to show others the animals I know; I don�??t have the strength to go undercover to expose the cruelty of factory farming; I can�??t even talk to others very well, to try to get them to think about animals in a different light. But today we had Education Lunch, which is something our Intern Coordinator, Don, organizes for us once a week. Our guest speaker was the president and co-founder of Farm Sanctuary, Gene Baur, and he told us a lot about his involvement in animal rights and the history of the farm. He also said something that made me feel a lot better; he said one of the best things that interns can do after leaving the farm is to tell stories about our time here. I finally felt like I might have the ability to do something that affects others; as a writer, it is my job and my passion to tell stories. I can write what I see, what I experience; I can tell stories about the animals. After that, the stories and how others read them, or even if others read them, is out of my hands. All I can do is keep writing.

Sunday, June 22nd

noreply@blogger.com (Alison) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 16:28:00 +0000

Time

I spent a week of my spring break, during the month of March, volunteering on the farm. Coming back over two months later, I couldn�??t help but notice the change the farm had undergone. Returning at the end of May, the area looked like a completely different place. My week in March was wet, icy, and absolutely freezing. Half the gates had to be shoved and jimmied and forced open every time I wanted to go through one; going to work required layers of clothing and my fingers and toes were painful when I moved them; the colors of the farm were white, grey, and muddy brown. Now, in June, the farm is saturated in bright colors and drowning in sunlight. The animals can spend more time outdoors and less time in the barns. They have a friskiness and energy about them that wasn�??t there before; they seem to be relishing the warmth and the open, green pastures. My nose is still running all the time though�??but now it is from allergies, not the cold weather.

The passage of time has brought changes to some of the animals as well. In March I met Clarabell, a young goat new to the farm that was living in the Lower Hospital. She was small and skinny, and had a condition that made her hooves and bones weak. I remember her fur being patchy; she had tiny bald patches on her neck and back. But she was a handful and a charmer. She loved when we spent time with her and each time I entered the Lower Hospital I was greeted by her cries and bleats as she demanded my attention. She stood on her back legs, her front legs on the side of her pen, so that we could better reach in and pet her. She was overjoyed when we allowed her to come into the Shelter House kitchen; she never could decide whether she wanted to follow us closely, nearly tripping us as she did so, or investigate�??and usually nibble on�??every box and trash can and animal she found. When there was no one in the kitchen to keep an eye on her we had to return her to her pen, and her cries told us she hated that we had to put her back as much as we did.

One of my last days on the farm I tried to take pictures of Clarabell. I have to use the word �??tried�?? because it was nearly impossible�??in most of the photos she is nothing but a brownish-grey blur. �??Clarabell, hold still,�?? I told her over and over again. But she wouldn�??t have it. She was a baby then, and full of vigor and spirit. She was so excited to have people in the room focusing all of their attention on her she just couldn�??t stand still. At that time I didn�??t know if I would be accepted into the summer internship program, but said to her, �??Don�??t worry Bella Bella. I�??ll be back to see you again.�??

When I left at the end of the week, the Caregivers still didn�??t know if Clarabell would ever be able to live with other animals. She was so small, and her joints and bones so fragile, that they weren�??t sure how large or strong she would get. So when I returned and walked into the Shelter House I expected to hear Clarabell�??s voice greeting me. But she wasn�??t in the Lower Hospital. �??Where�??s Clarabell?�?? I asked, a little worried. I was told she was out living in the pasture behind the Turkey Barn with two younger sheep named Ursula and Mandy. I could hardly believe it. �??She�??s living out on the farm? Wow,�?? I said. �??That�??s great.�??

I went out to find her. As I walked behind the Turkey Barn I recognized Ursula and Mandy immediately; they had been there in March and although they had grown Ursula and her funny way of walking were easy to spot. Then I saw a goat in the pasture with them. She was slender and tall, with a smooth, shiny coat. Her colors made her look like Clarabell, but I couldn�??t believe that this goat could be her. �??Bella?�?? I said tentatively. �??Is that you?�?? The goat in front of me was so healthy-looking; she was calm and had an air of self-assurance about her. She was nothing like the frenetic, scruffy baby goat I had known in the Lower Hospital. I approached the goat slowly and held my hand out. �??Hey there Miss Bella,�?? I said, still not entirely sure it was her�??but I didn�??t see any other goats in this pasture. It has to be her, I told myself. I sat down beside her; I petted the silky coat and found no bald spots, no dander. I searched her face for signs of the Clarabell I used to know.

I put my hands on my hips. �??Well, you certainly look different,�?? I told her. But after my hands fell away from her neck she gently, but determinedly, butted my side with her head. That small, clear sign of affection brought a smile to my face. Here was Clarabell, the one I called Bella Bella. The one who told me, When you�??re with me, you pay attention to me. I scratched behind her ears, I ran my fingers over the tiny nubs that still hadn�??t formed into horns. Inside she was the same Clarabell; her time on the farm had just allowed her to grow physically into a strong and healthy goat. Although I noticed it was unfortunately a bit harder for her to fit in my lap when she started trying to climb into it.

Another animal to whom I grew close during my stay in March was a pig named Marv. He was an enormous, elderly pig who lived in the section of the Pig Barn the staffers called the Retirement Barn, which is reserved for older and slower-moving pigs. He had huge hairy ears that flopped down right over his eyes and large, yellowed tusks. Since my friend Dakota, who also volunteered with me that week, and I were only there for a short time, we were only trained on Projects. Luckily, one of our tasks was to offer Marv water throughout the day. Marv�??s back legs didn�??t work well because of a spinal abcess, so the Caregivers wanted to save him a few trips to his water bowl and to make sure he was staying hydrated when he couldn�??t get there. So, two or three times each day we hiked through the snow and ice to the Retirement Barn to check on Marv. We walked into his barn and called, �??Marv! Hey Marv buddy. Time to wake up. Time for your bottle.�?? The second he heard his name he perked up, lifting his head and upper body out of the straw, looking at us from below�??or maybe through�??his gigantic floppy ears.

Being a nearly thousand pound pig, Marv didn�??t need have much use for baby bottles to help him drink his water. We filled up three large plastic bottles with water and walked into his pen. �??Hey Marv,�?? I said. �??We got your water coming up.�?? He answered me with happy grunts. Dakota and I held the bottles up to his mouth and he could drink from them without a top or a nipple, the way an athlete chugs from a bottled sports drink. And, if we did our part right, he barely spilled a drop. I remember the slurping noises he made as he drank. The number of bottles he finished told us how thirsty he was; his steady grunts told us he was happy to see us.

After he was done drinking, Dakota and I spent time with him when we could. He was such a gentle giant and so wonderfully charismatic it was hard to leave him. We scratched his back and rubbed his belly; I lifted up his ears to make sure he did actually have eyes underneath them. He was so mild-mannered he didn�??t even mind when curiosity drove me to touch his sharp tusks and his wet, wiggling nose. But it was evident his age was taking its toll on him. He could barely walk anymore because his back legs weren�??t functioning the way they should have. I could tell he was still happy and he still found joy in life, but I hated to think that his quality of life could, at any moment, start to rapidly decline. And I knew it was important to the Caregivers�??and I agreed with them�??that no animal on the farm should be made to suffer.

Saying good-bye to Marv was hard when my week was up. Both Dakota and I had nearly fallen in love and we made sure to give him farewell hugs and kisses. When I returned I couldn�??t wait to see him. My first night back in Vegan House, where all the interns live, one of the Caregivers, Doe, came over for a visit. I was asking her about the farm, telling her to give me all the updates. I asked her about my favorite animals. Of course I had to ask about Marv. �??How is he? Is he still getting around okay?�??

Doe cringed. �??We had to put him to sleep.�??

My jaw dropped. �??No,�?? I said. �??You�??re not serious.�?? But I didn�??t need to say that; I knew that she was.

Marv�??s death saddened me, but it was not a shock. I knew during my first stay at the farm that Marv was constantly discussed among the Caregivers. It is a general unwritten rule that decisions made about any animal are made by the group of Caregivers who work most closely with them, and the decision to put an animal to sleep is never taken lightly. Doe told me that after I left Marv only got worse, and the difficult decision was made to put him down. I was not angry with the Caregivers for a moment; it would have killed me to have Marv suffer unnecessarily for even a day. But I felt the weight of a heavy sadness. Even now, when I walk into the Retirement Barn, I sometimes catch myself looking for those silly, floppy ears and listening for that familiar friendly grunting. I know that the memory of Marv will never leave me. He was such a kind-hearted and gentle creature that he will be impossible to forget. When I met him he was old; at ten he was truly ancient for a pig, when most pigs are slaughtered at only six months. I am overjoyed that he got to live a long, full life on our farm. I may not have known him at his strongest, or his fastest, or his most powerful stage in life, but he was still willing and able to give me the gift of friendship. His ears may have been big, but I�??m almost certain his heart was bigger.

Thursday, June 19th

noreply@blogger.com (Alison) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 02:07:00 +0000

Projects

Today I did Projects. For a shelter intern, Projects is the real grunt work on the farm�??we move feeds and hay bales out of storage and into the barns so that they are available for the people on Feeds; we do all the random chores around the farm that no one else wants to or has time to do, like cleaning out the dusty and dirty laundry room or putting gas in the red farm truck; we clean up what seems like endless amounts of poop produced by the chickens in the Isolation Room. I�??ve done all of those things, until I was sneezing from the dust and my hands formed calluses from the twine of the hay bales. When one shelter intern asks another what she�??s doing around the farm, if the intern is doing Projects she usually says it with a roll of her eyes. �??Projects�?�,�?? we say, the tone of our voice going down. Even though everyone does Projects�??the interns, the staff members, the shelter manager�??we still can�??t help complaining about it. We never know what surprise job someone might write on the dry erase board for us to complete before the days end.

Projects can be hard and seemingly thankless work, but I have found that some of the most wonderfully unexpected moments happen to me when I work Projects. Every time I do Projects, one of the first things I have to do is get Cinco and Annie out of the Isolation Room and take them to their outdoor pen. Cinco came to Farm Sanctuary without any feet; he has two little stumps that the Caregivers gently wrap in gauze and medical tape. He�??s not in any pain so he can still hobble around, although slowly. He reminds me of a human amputee, maybe injured during a battle or a conflict, now an exile that has been saved from the horrific factory farms. On an average factory farm, Cinco would be worthless, nothing more than junk. Not only is he without his feet, but he is a rooster hatched from layer chickens. Since the roosters obviously cannot lay eggs, many of them are tossed into enormous plastic bags immediately after hatching, seen as an inconvenient and unwanted by-product of the egg industry.

I marvel sometimes to think about Cinco, about the series of lucky events that brought him to our farm. Chickens are incredibly social animals and have complex hierarchies within their groups and Cinco, without his feet, would never be able to compete and keep up with the other roosters and would get picked on if he stayed with them. He lives with his best friend Annie, who always seems to take care of him even though she is much faster and more agile than he is and could sulk at being placed with him. They spend every single day together, and in the mornings Annie squawks when I pick her up, and Cinco quietly accepts it, but when I get them inside their outdoor pen with fresh food and water waiting for them, they couldn�??t seem happier. I make sure I place Cinco directly in front of their food bowl so he doesn�??t have to work too hard to get his breakfast. I have found that the staff members and the interns like to spoil the animals, animals that were brought into this world to be someone�??s property, a desired product or an unwanted by-product, machines for producing meat or milk or eggs. Animals like Cinco, the ones that had some of the hardest lives, are especially pampered. I know that after I leave the farm there will be more interns who will empathize with Cinco and will make sure that they set him down right in front of his food bowl in the morning, so that he can eat his breakfast without having to lift even one of his stumpy yet spirited legs.

On Projects days I also get to take care of a few animals that are new to the Lower Hospital. What we call the Lower Hospital is an area attached to Shelter House, which is the central location for all shelter staff and where we have our kitchen and offices, and animals are temporarily housed there when we need to keep an eye on them. Right now we have three babies, two goats named Grace and Glory and a lamb named Oliver, and they all need to be bottle-fed. Grace and Glory are still small for their ages but extremely energetic. They both have long, floppy ears; Grace is completely white and Glory is brown. Chris, one of the Caregivers, was watching the babies with me one day and said, �??Glory just doesn�??t look like a goat to me. She looks like a little monkey.�?? I looked at Glory and had to laugh out loud because Chris�??s description was so accurate. Oliver is the blackest sheep I�??ve ever seen�??his face is black, his wool is black, even his tongue is black. He�??s striking looking, and the neon pink and blue and green bandages the Caregivers use to wrap up his injured leg contrast sharply with his dark body. But Oliver is louder than the bright colors of his bandage, although we think living with two goats has affected his �??bah�??; he now cries out with the bleating baby goat sounds of Grace and Glory.

I always know when it�??s time for the babies to get their bottles because they call to me to hurry up. �??Calm down, calm down,�?? I tell them. �??I�??m coming. You�??re not starving to death. Believe me.�?? Working on the farm, I�??m surrounded by chatter and conversations, some between animal and animal and some between human animal and animal. At the end of the day I often realize that most of my speaking was directed at animals and a lot of my listening was done for animals. I prepare the bottles and listen to Grace, Glory, and Oliver yelling at me. �??Hurry up! Hurry up! It�??s been forever and a day since we�??ve been fed! Honestly! We�??re not lying!�?? I shake my head as I test the milk on my wrist. �??I�??ll be there in a minute,�?? I say. If someone happens to be in the kitchen with me, they don�??t have to ask who I�??m talking to�??they know I�??m talking to the babies.

I asked Chris if she�??d help me bottle-feed them today. It is impossible for one person to give all three their bottles at once; if one is left out and has to wait, he or she shoves and pushes the others out of the way in an attempt to get to a bottle. Fortunately, it�??s a task that everyone on the farm loves to do and Chris follows me, I with Grace�??s and Oliver�??s bottles, she with Glory�??s. Grace and Oliver nearly push me over in their excitement and I struggle to get the right bottle to the right baby. �??What�??s going on with you?�?? Chris asks Glory. It takes me a moment to realize something is wrong and Glory isn�??t taking her bottle. After Grace and Oliver finish, I unscrew one of the nipples from my bottles and give it to her; sometimes they don�??t work well or aren�??t screwed on correctly. Chris tries again. Glory jumps eagerly at the bottle, but when she gets it in her mouth she won�??t suckle again and the milk only dribbles down her chin.

�??Glory Goat,�?? Chris says, in the affectionate way many staffers use to refer to the animals, by first name and then species. �??What�??s wrong? Does your mouth hurt?�??

�??Is she okay?�?? I ask.

�??Well, I don�??t know,�?? Chris says to me. Then to Glory: �??I�??m going to take your temperature.�??

Glory has a high temperature. Soon she is shivering and Jess puts a heat lamp in with them. The staff members get together to talk about what to do. One thing I love about the farm is that almost every decision regarding an animal is made by the group, not just one individual. Grace has had diarrhea on and off for a couple weeks and now it appears Glory might be sick; they decide to take all three babies to Cornell, where our animals go when they need treatment they can�??t receive on the farm. As everyone is readying the animals the mood in Shelter House is tense. It is nerve-wracking when any animal might be sick or when they have to be transported to Cornell, but I know it is especially stressful for everyone because Grace, Glory, and Oliver are just babies, still more delicate and more vulnerable to illness and change than the adult animals. I think at this point though, after all they have been through, the shelter staff does have a bit of confidence in these babies. They�??ve already proven to us how strong they are. It's also comforting to know that all three have been adopted, and once they get their strength and health back it won't be long before they are in a permanent, loving home.
Another task for the person on Projects is to apply sunscreen to the pigs�?? ears and bellies. The first time I told my father that I get to do this he couldn�??t help but laugh. I guess I understand; not many people would think that putting sunscreen on pigs would be a real job on a farm. Of course, on most farms it isn�??t. Pigs on factory farms are kept inside for their entire lives in dark and crowded buildings until they are slaughtered at six months, when they are the pig equivalent of children, long before they are fully grown. The things that wild pigs have to protect them from the sun, like thicker hair or darkly pigmented skin, have been almost completely bred out of meat pigs. Most of our pigs are pink, with coarse but sparse hair on their bodies. But just because they may not have built-in skin protectors does not mean we are going to ask them to live inside for the rest of their lives; as members of the species that has damaged the pigs so much it is now our responsibility to take extra steps to help them out. So their hairless ears and bellies get sunscreen�??if they haven�??t gone down to the mud hole to apply their own natural mud sunscreen.

The pigs, unless it is feeding time and they are jostling and bickering with each other for the best position at the trough, absolutely love the individual attention and rubdowns they get when we put sunscreen on them. They make grunts of pleasure as I rub behind their ears; they shift their enormous bodies to expose more of their bellies to me, just like dogs do. Sometimes I get caught up in the wonder of the sheer size of them, some are seven hundred and eight hundred pounds and could easily injure me if they wanted to, but they are so much more content to let me scratch their backs and bellies, spread out on the straw in front of me in a completely relaxed position. I stop sometimes to marvel at them, to inspect an eye or a hoof more closely, to try to take in the whole creature in front of me, but they give me a quick reminder grunt to say, �??Hey, I�??m still awake. Keep scratching.�??

Teresa is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful pigs on the farm. I can�??t explain why, but during my weeks here I have felt a strong connection to her. Pigs, like all farm animals, have a strict social hierarchy and the pigs can be brutal in order to keep the hierarchy in place or when challenging another pig for its position. At times it proves impossible to introduce an adult pig into the barn, and that pig must stay alone until another pig is found to be an appropriate companion and friend. Teresa is one of those pigs. Whenever I go into the pig barn to sunscreen the pigs, I always make sure to go into her pen, or to look for her in the tall grass out in her private field. She always sits still as I sunscreen her ears, a tranquil expression on her face. I scratch her back and her whole body moves side to side from the sheer joy of it. I set down my bottle of sunscreen and scratch her with both hands, talking to her, complimenting her beauty; her skin is so rough and her hair so coarse it feels like my fingernails might get ripped off, but I know she loves a good scratch so I don�??t mind it at all.

I found out the other day from the shelter manager, Jess, why Teresa is kept alone. She used to live with the other pigs but they discovered she had uterine cancer. She had surgery to remove her uterus, but the time away from the other pigs meant Teresa was removed from their social group. And the surgery was successful, but too late; the cancer had already metastasized and spread throughout her body. �??Teresa has cancer?�?? I asked, shocked. Jess nodded and said, �??I don�??t think she�??s too long for this world.�?? I was crushed and surprised; I had no idea Teresa was sick. But she is amazing like that, always tranquil, always composed. I kiss Teresa on the head. �??You�??re beautiful, just beautiful,�?? I tell her. I know she doesn�??t understand me but she listens attentively, and I feel like the words are good for her to hear.

Monday, June 9th

noreply@blogger.com (Alison) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 01:45:00 +0000

Waiting

We had been waiting for weeks for Ophelia to give birth. All the other pregnant sheep that came in from New Canaan had already given birth. Ophelia, band number twenty-one, shy but not skittish, still hadn�??t had her baby. Jess, the shelter manager, wrote up a chart for her and staff was to check her four times a day to check for signs that she was in labor�??or that she�??d had a miscarriage. I always felt the smallest knot of nervousness when it was my turn to check her. I knew the Caregivers said we couldn�??t be sure of the due dates of any of the sheep and that we might be waiting until the end of June, but I couldn�??t help but be worried I�??d find signs of a miscarriage. I tried to get close enough to her to lay a hand on her side, to feel for movements originating from her belly, but her shyness made that difficult and her thick wool made it more so.

On Monday morning I walked to the R&R Barn, where the New Canaan sheep live, to open the barn and let the sheep out into the pasture. I used to look for Ophelia�??s band before opening the doors, but someone had sprayed a tiny purple dot on her back so that we could more easily identify and check her. We�??d seen no change since Jess started the chart; it contained rows of signatures and quickly scribbled notes that read �??AM�??looks normal�?? and �??No change.�?? It was a beautiful, sunny day so after preparing Dinah�??s bottle and setting it in hot water to warm it I walked into the barn and opened the doors to the delighted bah-ing of the sheep. Dinah was born to a mother, Alex, who was too old to be bred and couldn�??t produce milk. �??Hang on Dinah,�?? I told the lamb. She knew it was time for her bottle, but I had to throw green hay down for the sheep to munch on if it got hot during the day and they had to retire to the shade of the barn. But Dinah wasn�??t the only sheep making noise; another adult sheep had not run out with the others but had stayed behind and was now bah-ing loudly. �??What�??s going on with you?�?? I asked. I saw the dot on its back; it was Ophelia. �??Ophelia, what�??s wrong?�?? I walked over to her and went behind her. I saw a tiny, black hoof poking out of her. She was giving birth. �??Oh no,�?? I said. �??Oh crap.�?? I had no idea what to do.

Dinah jumped up to get my attention. �??No, not now Dinah,�?? I said. Ophelia continued to bah loudly. I closed one of the doors I had opened, but as I was doing that she went out the other one. I remembered Jess saying that most of the lambs had been born in the barn; for whatever reason this made me think I had to keep her in the barn. �??Ophelia!�?? I called to her. �??No, no, no. You need to come back here.�?? I walked behind her and she ran from me towards the barn. I closed the gate behind her and watched Dinah run through the pasture to join the other sheep. I hadn�??t given her the bottle. As I watched her run away and listened to Ophelia bah-ing I felt overwhelmed. I was alone in the R&R Barn, which is set a ways off the main farm. I had never seen anything giving birth, ever. I looked at Ophelia, reminded myself that even if I didn�??t know what I was doing that she must, and then I ran to find a radio.

I found one in the R&R Barn kitchen. �??Hey. Somebody needs to come up to the R&R Barn. Ophelia is giving birth.�??

Nothing.

This cannot be the time when no one has a radio, I thought. Not now. �??Hello? Is anyone there? Ophelia is giving birth. Someone needs to come up. Now.�??

Someone responded, �??I�??ll be right there.�?? Through the static I couldn�??t tell who it was, but I didn�??t care.

A couple minutes later, Jess pulled up in the big grey van. She walked into the barn calmly. �??Oh my god I�??m so glad you�??re here,�?? I said. �??I didn�??t really know what to do. I came in and opened up the barn and all the sheep ran out except Ophelia and she was just going, �??Bah, bah, bah�?? so I looked at her and I saw this little hoof and she tried to go into the pasture but I made her come back in and I don�??t know if that�??s what I was supposed to do but that�??s what I did.�?? I was rambling from the excitement and the worry that I somehow messed something up.

Jess�??s next words calmed me. �??No, that�??s good. We don�??t want them giving birth in the pasture. It�??s a lot better if we can monitor them in the barn.�??

I felt a wave of relief�??I did something right, even if it was just a small thing. �??Is it supposed to be coming out like that? Hooves first?�??

�??Yeah,�?? Jess said. �??It�??s the front hooves. Then the head comes out and the whole body comes out.�??

�??Does it take long?�??

�??No.�?? Jess shook her head. �??Not at all. It�??s really fast once it gets started.�??

�??I feel really bad. I didn�??t give Dinah her bottle. Do you think I have time to give it to her?�??

Jess shrugged. �??You better hurry up.�??

I grabbed the bottle and ran out into the pasture. �??Dinah!�?? I called, but I didn�??t see her. I kept running. �??Where are you? Dinah girl, I got your bottle!�??

I saw a streak of white charging towards me. Daily bottle feedings ensured Dinah learned her name. We met about a hundred feet from the barn. I could still hear Ophelia. �??Come on Dinah,�?? I gently urged. �??Hurry up girl.�?? Although feeding her usually seemed to go so fast, at that moment it felt like it was taking forever. I realized I couldn�??t hear Ophelia anymore. I was cursing myself; I was sure I�??d just missed the birth.

When Dinah finished I gave her a quick �??Good girl!�?? and took off towards the barn. �??Did I miss it?�?? I said as I pushed through the gate.

�??No,�?? Jess said. She was standing against a wall staring down at Ophelia, cool and composed with her arms crossed over her chest.

�??Oh,�?? I said. �??I thought I�??d missed everything.�??

I joined Jess against the wall and we watched Ophelia. I could still only see a hoof�??and a whole lot of a clear, slimy, mucousy substance. �??I�??ve never seen anything give birth before in my whole life," I said. "Nothing.�??

�??Really?�?? Jess said. �??Wow. It�??s really cool. Very awesome thing to watch.�?? Ophelia arranged herself so that she was lying down. �??Here we go,�?? Jess said. �??Now it�??s happening.�??

�??Man, of course she has to do it right on the hay I just threw down. Of course.�?? I smiled. �??Wait. Is that a nose? Is that its face sticking out?�??

Jess squinted. �??I think it is.�??

�??Hey guys. What�??s going on?�?? Dan, Jess�??s boyfriend and the farm�??s cruelty investigator, had walked into the barn.

�??Ophelia�??s giving birth,�?? Jess said.

�??Oh okay,�?? Dan said. �??I saw the van parked outside, and then as I was driving by I saw you running across the pasture and I didn�??t know what was going on.�??

�??You can see its nose,�?? I said. �??See? It�??s moving.�??

Dan joined us against the wall. �??Yeah, it is.�??

But the birth didn�??t seem to be going quickly. Ophelia kept bah-ing and then she stood back up. �??Hey, hey. What are you doing?�?? Jess directed at her.

�??Where�??d the nose go?�?? Dan asked. �??I can�??t see it anymore.�??

�??What? You can�??t?�?? Jess said.

�??No,�?? Dan said.

�??Are you sure it was the nose?�?? Jess said.

�??Yeah, I�??m pretty sure.�??

�??I think it was the nose,�?? I said. �??It was moving. Like it was breathing.�??

�??Oh god,�?? Jess said, moving closer to inspect Ophelia. �??Yep. There definitely isn�??t a nose there anymore.�?? She paused. �??Dan. Can you see a second hoof? I just see one.�??

Dan shook his head. �??I only see one.�??

I looked from Ophelia to their faces; Jess was starting to look tense. �??Is that bad?�?? I asked. �??If there�??s only one hoof?�??

�??Maybe,�?? Jess said. �??It could mean the other one is stuck somewhere.�??

�??I�??m pretty sure it was breathing for a moment,�?? I said, beginning to worry.

�??Dan, go get the kit,�?? Jess said. �??Get the gloves and everything.�??

Dan walked toward the R&R Barn kitchen. �??Should I get the respirator?�??

�??Yeah, get it,�?? Jess said.

When Dan returned we continued to watch Ophelia. �??This should be happening faster,�?? Jess said. �??We should be seeing the nose again.�?? She walked over to the kit and grabbed a rope. �??Okay. We�??ve got to catch her.�??

Dan seemed to know what she was doing, so I just followed their lead. We cornered her and caught her; Dan tied the rope around her head like a bridle. Dan pushed a hip behind her shoulder to keep her in place. Jess had put on long, clear gloves that went almost to her shoulders. �??Grab that,�?? she told me, pointing to a tube of petroleum jelly on the barn floor. She held out her arms and said, �??Put it all over.�??

�??Like�?�all over?�?? I said.

�??All over,�?? Jess said, so I squeezed. Jess rubbed her hands together and over her arms. She knelt behind Ophelia and I bent to watch what her. She reached inside Ophelia, who immediately protested with a loud �??bah.�??

�??What are you doing?�?? I said.

�??I�??m looking to see if I can feel the other leg,�?? Jess said. She was in up to her wrists, a serious expression on her face. Dan struggled to hold Ophelia in place. �??I know, I�??m sorry,�?? Jess told her quietly. �??I�??ve got to do this.�?? After a minute she pulled out her hands. �??I don�??t feel anything. I don�??t feel the leg.�?? Jess looked genuinely worried.

Dan said, �??Do you want me to try?�?? Jess nodded and I was instructed to hold Ophelia. �??Right here,�?? Dan pointed. �??Right behind her shoulder. Just put your weight into it.�??

Dan put gloves on and Jess lubricated them with the petroleum jelly. They both knelt behind Ophelia as Dan felt for the leg but he found no more than Jess did. �??It�??s not there at all,�?? he said. �??I don�??t feel the hoof or anything. Maybe it�??s bent way back.�??

Jess swore and shoved Dan aside. I had never seen her so stressed out; I�??d never seen her anything but relaxed and laid back. I knew she was worried for the lamb, which in turn made me worry for it. �??Get the respirator,�?? Jess told Dan. He grabbed it and put it to the lamb�??s face as Jess helped maneuver its nose out of Ophelia. The respirator looked like a long tube with suction cups at either end that fit over the lamb�??s nose. With one end Dan pulled the gunk out of the lamb�??s lungs; with the other he pushed air into them. Jess continued to search for the leg to try to put it into a position that would allow Ophelia to push the lamb out. She struggled against me and I felt my legs getting tired�??she was very strong. I put a hand on her side and told her softly that she would be okay. I felt muscles rippling down her body in waves.

Chris and Megan arrived at the barn. Jess had finally determined what happened to the leg. �??It�??s bent completely back at the shoulder,�?? she explained to them. �??It�??s lying along its back. And the shoulder is stuck behind Ophelia�??s hip. I don�??t even know if it�??s still breathing.�?? I continued to hold Ophelia as Jess and Dan struggled to free the leg. Ophelia fought against me. I looked out over the gate at the green grass of the pasture. This is not what I wanted to see for my first birth, I thought. I did not want to see a stillborn lamb. I felt tears creeping into my eyes but held my face so the others could not see it. I didn�??t know if I could handle watching a dead lamb emerge from Ophelia�??s body, not after all her hard work. I knew I would be devastated.

I think Megan sensed my legs were getting tired because she came over and offered to hold Ophelia. I stepped away gratefully and knelt down beside Jess. I could see that single hoof and most of the lamb�??s face. Every so often Dan put the respirator over its nose and pumped air into its lungs. �??We have to get him out,�?? Jess said. �??This is taking too long.�?? I glanced at her and saw that it looked like she wanted to cry too. �??Come on Ophelia,�?? she said. �??Push. Help me out.�?? She had her arms inside Ophelia nearly to her elbows. �??Don�??t pull so hard,�?? Dan said. �??I�??m not,�?? Jess snapped back. �??We�??ve got to get him out.�??

And then finally, finally, after all that waiting, Jess and Dan got him out. He fell into their arms and they brought him to the floor of the barn. Jess made a sound, an exhausted exhalation, and she was crying. I began to cry as well. Dan untied Ophelia as Jess and I knelt over the lamb. I begged him silently to move. When he lifted his head and moved his legs, the tears rolled freely out of my eyes. Jess looked like she was in shock.

�??Oh my god I can�??t believe you just did that,�?? I told Jess. �??That was amazing.�??

�??It normally doesn�??t take that long,�?? she said. �??It usually goes a lot more smoothly.�??

�??You saved him,�?? I said. I wiped some of the tears off my cheeks, embarrassed to be crying in front of people with whom I�??d worked for just over a week. �??You were great.�??

We moved out of the way and watched Ophelia clean her baby. He was white with black spots on his body and face, including two around his eyes that made him look a bit like a raccoon. She licked him gently and his short, fleecy coat began to fluff up. I was in awe of Ophelia, I was in awe of Jess. I was amazed that the little lamb made his way into the world. Watching him and his mother, I couldn�??t even tell that it had been such a difficult birth. �??How did you know what to do?�?? I asked Jess. �??I mean, that was so crazy. How do you learn how to do that?�??

�??I didn�??t know what to do,�?? Jess said. �??I�??ve just learned here. I learn by doing. I had no idea what I was doing there.�??

I couldn�??t believe it. I shook my head. �??Honestly, that was so amazing. He�??s alive because of you.�?? But I didn�??t tell her what impressed me the most about what she did during the birth. I knew that it had been hard for her, I saw the fear creeping into her face when she thought that the lamb wasn�??t going to make it. She wasn�??t just a veterinarian treating the animal for a day. She and the other Caregivers had brought the pregnant mother sheep from sickness to health; she cared for them and watched over them since the day they arrived at our shelter. I knew that she saw the lamb�??s life in a way that only an animal rights person can, as a life truly worth living, as a life that deserves to be happy and free of suffering. The birth was not only a job, not only a learning experience, but so many more inexpressible things. She had felt for the lamb, had feared for its life, but she fought through that fear to do what she needed to do to save him.

I listened to Ophelia �??bah�?? at her baby. It felt as if she were talking to him; I thought I knew what she was doing. I had seen mothers and lambs get separated in the pasture and they called to each other, each one recognizing the other�??s unique sound, until they were reunited�??as if each one gives the other a name. �??She�??s bah-ing at him so he knows her, isn�??t she?�?? I asked Jess. She nodded. I sat down in the straw, overwhelmed and exhausted from watching my first birth. Jess reassured me again that it normally doesn�??t take so long. �??Don�??t worry,�?? I said. �??That was still incredible.�?? I sat in silence, listening to Ophelia talk to her baby, giving him a name in a language we could not comprehend.