Every year there comes a day in the spring, when, after days of seeking out those elusive blades of green grass, the sheep get turned into a paddock where the grass is lush and growing. Instead of having to search for those rare blades, it’s a veritable buffet, and they stuff themselves. It comes after some rain and some warm weather. The grass is ready for spring and so are the sheep.
Every year I worry that I am going to kill my sheep by suddenly changing their diet. I tell myself that they’ve been getting some green grass every day, that they’ve been working up to this, that if they were in the wild, they’d somehow have to deal with stumbling upon abundance. And the paddock, after all, isn’t very big, so it’s not like they can be gorging all day long. But still I worry.
And yesterday afternoon, half of them were acting very strange–lying down with their heads stretched out in front of them on the ground. When I’d approach them, they’d scramble to their feet, but then stand there with their heads hanging down. Very weird indeed. About half of them were doing that. Maybe they had belly-aches. I probably would if I were a sheep. I wonder if I should call someone, who could maybe tell me what I should do to help them. I wonder if I’ve killed them. Why don’t I ever learn my lesson about spring grass?
I stand and watch them for a long time. Their sides aren’t extended like they would be if they were bloating, and after a bit, the worst of them starts eating more of the green grass. Okay, I guess. I throw them some more hay, because by evening, they’ve pretty much eaten down all the new green stuff, and go in to my own dinner. I really hope I haven’t killed my sheep.
And in the morning, I’m greeted by eight live perky-eyed sheep, hoping that I’ll open up a new paddock for them. The answer is no, today is a day for hay. They can have a new paddock tomorrow. And I remember that I have his fear every single spring, and (so far) every single spring, they’ve been fine. Phew!
Fig Hill Farm & the Kansas Figgery 