Sheep

One of the saddest days of my life was when we loaded the most part of a herd, 120 to be precise, of sheep into a lorry and sent them to slaughter. Originally a flock for conservation grazing, they were never kept for butchering. The decision had already been made to reduce numbers and most of the young were due to go, but some of them were well over 15 years of age, had names and had been hand fed every day.

It had been a hard year. Jim was made redundant, the field the sheep were grazing was to be given over to horses, drought made the price of hay hit the roof and alternative grazing was almost impossible to find. It' was a hard decision to make and knowing each and every one, by name and character, made it even worse. There was no other option.
I will never forget, and as I write still have, the overwhelming feeling that I'd betrayed animals who had trusted me for so long.

A friend had kept the best of the flock on her adjacent field. Some went to Wales, where the breed originated, and our friend liked the idea of keeping a few on to keep her pet lamb company. There, those fortunate few, live a life of sheep in heaven and have multiplied. We don't go very often, the elder ones recognise us, but also know we don't go to feed them any more, but to catch them up. The Clever clogs, don't willingly come too close when they see me now! Jim and I went up this morning to give the sheep a dose of Dysect, to protect them against parasites and fly strike, and to tag the new lambs.

This is one of them sporting his new tags.