Inner Voices of Obligation

I know better than to schedule appointments during lambing season.

As soon as I do, the sheep need me.

Then my inner sense of obligation to my commitments rises up to battle against the animals who only can offer a clear picture of a dire situation.

At least, that’s what happened last week.

My appointment with politicians was a 20-minute drive into Conrad at 9 a.m.

I was sure they would appreciate my efforts to wash off barn odors first so I better be done taking care of new lambs and still-pregnant ewes by 8.

At daylight, I headed to the barn.

Four ewes had newborns wobbling to their feet.

Then I spotted a yearling with a huge lamb head under her tail.

She needed my help right now.

My square sheep corral is spacious, not conducive to walking up to a panicked ewe, gently laying her on her side and pulling a lamb.

In fact, that idea is so ridiculous that I giggled to myself.

Cutting a panicked ewe from the rest of the flock is almost as ridiculous, but I managed to sort the yearling and a few others into a smaller pen.

As I sorted, I spotted a second yearling with lambing trouble at her rear end.

As I worked the yearlings, I was a little taken aback at the mental diatribe I aimed at my meeting politicians.

My filter teamed up with the minutes, fading into the past.

My inner voice used some politically incorrect language -- even swore -- at the situation and the inertia stalling a simple and obvious solution.

After a few more cuss words, I realized that diatribe should have been aimed at myself.

It was nobody’s fault but my own that I faced competing interests for my time.

I snagged the first yearling with my shepherd’s hook, leaned over her back and held her front leg bent with my left hand so she couldn’t get up, then reached in to find a lamb’s two front feet with my right hand.

The lamb was enormous.

And almost dead.

It was a hard pull, but I left the new family to bond, glad for the sunshine that helped all of us feel better.

My watch said 7:45.

I chased the second yearling around the pen a few times before I cornered and snagged her.

Her lamb was in better shape when I pulled it into our world. It raised its head and shook its floppy ears.

My jeans wore a rainbow of mud, blood and manure, and my shirt was soaked with several fluids, but two lambs were alive.

8:15.

I walked the rest of the flock to breakfast, wondering whether I should skip my meeting.

The issue is vital to my operation.

So are live lambs.

Debate raged between my ears.

One voice said the way to get things done is to show up.

Another reminded me that my animals need me.

The first voice said the lambs I pulled needed a couple of hours without my harassment.

A third, the Magnolia Manners of my ancestry, whisper-yelled that I better be presentable when, not if, I honored my commitment. And furthermore, I darned well better be gracious while I was there.

8:42.

I speed-scrubbed my hands before jumping into my truck. The politicians probably were used to stench.

My Magnolia Manners voice howled.

I ignored her.

As I pulled out my gate, I spotted two calves on the county road.

Nine minutes later, they were back in the pasture.

I slid into my meeting only seven minutes late.

The politicians recognized my passion.

They probably smelled it, too.

Both new lambs were nursing when I got home.