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That's What I Like About EweMost of my sheep are, well, sheep. But then there's No. 57.

By Jon Katz
Posted Wednesday, June 27, 2007, at 7:02 AM ET

This piece is adapted from Jon Katz's new book, Dog Days: Dispatches From Bedlam Farm, published this month by Villard.

(Continued from page 1)

The sheep epitomize the names-vs.-numbers cultures of animal care. When I call the large-animal vets, the dispatcher often asks if my animals have names or numbers. The question puzzled me, until experience and observation clarified it. People who name their animals see them as individual personalities and are much more likely to attribute humanlike emotions to them. I would never put a tag in Pearl's ear and call her No. 12. But most farmers can't afford to personify animals, so they give them numbers.

Vets know that animals with numbers are apt to be "production animals"—headed for market. Farmers won't spend more on their care than the animal is worth: If the treatment cost exceeds the market price, the animal is likely to be euthanized. Whereas animals with names—not only dogs and horses but some sheep, goats, and alpacas—are seen as individuals, even family members. Their owners are far more likely to spend what it takes to make them well. Some vets treat only animals with numbers, others only animals with names.

Asking about nomenclature is as good a way as any for determining what kind of vet care people will pay for. My dogs and donkeys have names. So does Elvis (and Mother, my barn cat). And once or twice a week, I bring Elvis jelly doughnuts and Snickers bars, which he loves. And the donkeys get horse cookies and carrots every day. But only four of my sheep have names. Paula is the first ewe we bought, and I named her after my wife. Brutus is her good-natured son, a wether (neutered male). I also named both rams. But my favorite ewe actually has no name. She is called No. 57. Two years ago, No. 57 gave birth to healthy twin lambs, and in the melee of separating the sheep being sold to another farmer from the sheep who were staying, I mistakenly sent her lambs away. It was awful. She was the best, most conscientious mother in the flock, and her mournful bleating, though it lasted just two days, haunted me for weeks.

I bred the sheep again the next year, in some measure to give No. 57 another shot at motherhood. She's the only one in the flock who has fought past the dogs to get to know me, the only one who shows individual personality traits. No. 57 comes trotting over to me, skittering around Rose to get her nose scratched and cadge a donkey cookie or carrot. She has a black face and big, bright eyes: As with the steer Elvis, it seems to me something is going on behind those eyes. Perhaps if I looked hard at the other ewes, I would see the same thing. The truth is, I don't have the time, or need, to find out. Rose, seeing that I welcome her visits, gives No. 57 a pass.

So it was particularly odd, in early March, that No. 57 began charging at Rose when we entered the pasture, butting, even kicking her. Rose could not back her off or keep her at bay, nor could she get her to join the rest of the herd. It went on like this for five or six increasingly testy days, as Rose grew more focused on this ewe and began using her mouth to defend herself and try to move 57. I called the vet, who came and checked the ewe out.

"She's fine," he said. "Nothing wrong with her."

So, I isolated her for two days, then let her out—and she went right at Rose again. "I think I may have to get rid of her her or even have her put down," I told Annie. "This just isn't healthy. She may be getting old or grumpy." I didn't want her turning Rose into a hunting dog instead of a herding dog; we'd worked too hard for that. One morning, I warned Annie, No. 57 just might not be here. Annie, horrified, disagreed. I soon heard from friends that she was frantically calling around, trying to find a new home for 57.

Soon afterward, riding up the pasture on the ATV to take another look, I saw with chagrin the reason for the ewe's out-of-character behavior. It was ridiculously simple: No. 57 was lying down with Jesus, the newborn donkey. A vigilant mother, even if the baby wasn't hers, she was trying to stay between him and Rose. I told Annie she didn't have to find a new home for 57; the ewe was more than welcome to stay. In a week or two, I suspected, 57 would relax and calm down and let Rose do her job. Sure enough, in a few days, she and Rose had worked things out and herding returned to normal.

Annie told me she didn't really believe that I would have killed my favorite ewe. She might be right. But I think I could have gotten rid of her, and if there are future problems, I would. And, more than ever, I don't think sheep need peanuts.

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Jon Katz's next book, Izzy and Lenore: Two Dogs, An Unexpected Journey, and Me, will be published in September. His Web site is www.bedlamfarm.com.
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Remarks from the Fray:

We currently have 50 sheep. We recognize that they do indeed have individual personalities. They also have a fairly complex and stable hierarchy. They are a society, and until a shepherd takes the time to observe, it's a secret society. The Secret Society of Sheep.

They have different preferences for grazing, shade, water. They have their own spots in which to sleep at night. They each have a different reaction to being handled, some are nearly impossible to catch, but once you do, they relax. Some fight and fight. Some come up to be next! Some like, i mean genuinely like dogs, some like people, some like the llama who is their guardian. Some only like sheep. The breed of sheep does have a lot to do with personalities. We have Icelandic Sheep. They tend to have little flocking instinct and are an ancient, intelligent breed.

I think people usually do need to distance themselves from the livestock which they kill for food. It's a human reaction. Make them 'things' so you don't feel bad. But the fact of the matter is that every living thing is an individual, and given enough time, can respond affectionately to human kindness.

All of our sheep have names. So do our cattle. So do our horses, dogs and barn cats. They live as good a life as we can possible give them. And if they end up in the freezer, well, they lived well until then and were loved.

--eightpondfarm

(To reply, click here.)

I name many of our livestock, especially those who are around for a long time like the sows and boars in the breeding herd who we will need to discuss.[…] Names tend to have something to do with the animal. A physical or behavioral characteristic that is distinctive.

The sow is named Out because she slipped out through a very small hole in the fence and farrowed in the forest. Her aunt Flop is named for her particularly floppy ears. The boar Archimedes is named because he always seems to be peering studiously over his non-existent glasses. Big Pig is named for, well, you can guess on that one. Sometimes it is a pattern in their coloring. There is Cookie who looks like she has chocolate chips on her and Soviet who had the soviet flag on her butt. Mouse got her name because she has a rather famous Disney logo on her shoulder. The birthmark looks just like Mickey Mouse - the two of them will have to squabble over the intellectual property rights on that one as I'm not getting involved.

Normally I don't name animals initially. On the breeders it is generally after about six months or so of age that they 'tell me' their names. That's when we start to need to differentiate them from the run of the mill finisher pigs who are going to market. […]

On the topic of spending excessive money on vet bills for named animals - doesn't happen here. Not even close. Name vs number makes no difference. Can't afford it, for one thing. Dogs don't get it either. I do what doctoring I can as needed. Mostly we just try to avoid injury and illness. Heck, I don't even spend much on myself or my wife. Admittedly the kids are another matter, but then they're pets and I'm a bit emotionally attached to them. :) Cheers -Walter Sugar Mountain Farm in the mountains of Vermont

--pubwvj

(To reply, click here.)

When in grad school, I taught two entry level science classes of 200 +- students each. Like Jon, I considered these sheep to be not worthy of more than a number, in their case a student ID number. Except for a few. There was one "Little Girl" who I'll call LT to avoid lawsuits. I still remember her name even though 35 years have passed since I last saw her. She was an elementary education major taking a science course for non science majors and as simple as I could make things was still to complicated for her. Her constant whining and pleading burned her into my memory forever.

I had another (male) student very much the same. I guess these were my sheep #s 57 and 58.

Today, I have a number of chemists that work for me, or rather for my lab manager. Like Jon's sheep I know most of them on a sort of number only basis. Until I see something special, there is little need for any more identity than that. This may make me less than I should be or at least identify me as a bad person.

Numbers for sheep are ok, but I guess I should name my chemists in a way more personal than sheep #1 and sheep #2. The trouble is all I see when I look at them is Baaaaaa Baaaaaa and occasionally one that falls in the ditch and can't get out. They are bad to stand out in the rain of a driving thunderstorm, six feet outside of an open barn door and the smell of fresh hay.

I do know my lab manager's name. He is a lot like Jon's sheepdog, Rose.

--meridiantoo

(To reply, click here.)

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