Field Trip

Sunday, March 20, 2011

One day when I was in elementary school my dad called to say he needed help at home. There was a sheep having trouble lambing, could he have some assistance? Emily declined the opportunity and Luke's hands were too big, but Andrew and I would be picked up soon. Though my hands would never be described as small now, they were and still are smaller than the veterinarian and my dads hands. It was all very thrilling with the unusual call to school and crises at hand but I should have had more reservation about the task I was being called to. When hand size is used in a sentence with birthing it can't be good news.

The thrill of being important ebbed away as I stood with my dad behind the sheep. He soaped up his hand then passed the bottle to me as he demonstrated what I needed to do. The lamb was dead and this was attempt to save the mother. Gingerly he began inserting his hand into the sheep and I could see the difficulty he was having with his large calloused fingers. I don't know at what point I started crying but the gagging began when I brought my fingers together and tried to poke them in. There was a terrible smell of decay and the sheep let out little moaning bleats. I backed away and turned my face to the wall. I couldn't do this. I didn't know how and it stank so bad. What if I hurt the sheep? This job was over my head and I didn't have the strength. Dad told me I had to try or there would be no hope at all.

The details are a blur and I haven't reminisced about this lately with my dad but it was a long process of gags, pleas, and the mutual agreement that the inside of the sheep felt like chili. I don't know that I accomplished that much in the end. I think my dad managed to get more of the lamb out than me but it came out in pieces. It was so decomposed that pulling a foot only got you a leg. The sheep died and I opened the gate as it was loaded on the truck to haul away. I scrubbed my hands for a long time that night.