What To Do With Gardenia

Gardenia started life cold, weak, and hungry.

Her first sensation must have been snow pelting her as she dropped from the ewe’s

womb.

Lambs are supposed to get up and find breakfast, but Gardenia curled up and shivered.

Her twin managed to nuzzle the ewe’s udder.

That was enough for the ewe.

When I plucked Gardenia from the snow and corral dirt, I didn’t know if I could warm her

fast enough to save her life.

Eight years later, I call Gardenia a win.

She has had twins every year.

Despite her lack of a maternal role model, she has counted to two every morning and

night. If one lamb wasn’t by her side, she bleated her panic until the lamb appeared

from the flock.

Gardenia has saved numerous other lambs, too.

Occasionally, a first-time mother would be standing over a newborn in the cold, dark

morning.

First time mothers of any species don’t know what to do with that item they adore.

Typically, I let them settle down, nuzzle their own personal alien being and discover their

natural instincts before I carry the lamb and lead the ewe to their private room in the

barn.

But when wind or freezing temperatures create a ticking, life-or-death clock, neither the

ewe nor I have the luxury of time.

If I can’t get the lamb out of the cold, it will die. Then the ewe will take a long ride to

Taco Bell because that will be the only way she can contribute her share of the ranch

income that year.

Gardenia often saved the day.

I would get a bucket of grain – Gardenia’s favorite – then pick up the newborn lamb.

The nervous new mama might or might not follow her baby, but Gardenia would follow

the bucket. The new mama would follow Gardenia.

A few switcheroos into private indoor pens and the lamb would be warm, the ewe could

realize her maternal potential and Gardenia would munch her just reward.

Gardenia has lived a full life, but she is old now.

The teeth she has left are nubs.

She can’t consume enough grass to stay fat.

In fact, her ribs and hips look like they might poke through her skin.

Yet, she still wants to go out to the pasture with the flock. She still loves life.

I wonder how long she will.

I wonder whether I will see the signs she gives me when she doesn’t.

I won’t send her to Taco Bell – she wouldn’t make the trip and, frankly, the idea makes

me too sad to consider.

When the day comes, I’ll have to shoot her without her knowing what is about to

happen.

Meanwhile, she has one more job to do.

Sheep learn to eat forages by watching what their mothers eat.

This instinct has served ovines well – only a few will experiment with poisonous death

camas, for example, because their mamas don’t eat death camas.

They will eat dandelions and thistles, but not flixweed for the same reason.

But I have nine orphan lambs that don’t have a mother to teach them about forages.

They only eat pellets because my friend, Shelley, and I shoved pellets into their mouths

until they got the idea.

But my orphan lambs will watch what Gardenia eats.

I put her in the pen with the orphans and opened the gate to a small pasture.

Gardenia can graze in a small area so she doesn’t use all of her energy to walk miles

with the flock.

The orphan lambs can frolic in the grass and thistles, watch what Gardenia eats and

stretch their culinary repertoire.

Orphan to orphan, connecting the circle of life.