By October, the winter lambs are ready for their first haircuts. It’s an exciting time. First of all, these babies have no idea what shearing is all about. Having been out in the field all summer, they’re not overly tame. Even the bottle lambs, who run up to humans, eagerly anticipating ear- and chest rubs, don’t like to be caught and tied. That, alone, is enough to send them into a tizzy, leaping and straining against the collar and rope, trying their best to get away. Imagine setting to a wild beast like that with sharp scissors and cutting off their wool to a quarter inch of the skin without nicking them.

Case in point, Elderberry. She was the first lamb born here in the winter of 2022. Given my naming theme of berries this year, it was obvious from the start what she would be called. Elderberry was unusually large for a Navajo-Churro x Shetland x Border-Leicester lamb. Nearly black in color, bright-eyed and energetic, she’s a keeper!

But this big girl wanted nothing to do with shearing.

I shear out in the field, without access to electricity. I use a good pair of kitchen scissors for the job, the kind that comes with its own sharpener, which I use two or three time during each shearing. I don’t do Sheep Wrestling in Twenty Easy Steps. I simply tie the sheep to a tree, post, or their shade shelter and start with whichever body part the sheep presents first, or at that which seems to offend her the least. Usually, I start along the spine, and then work my way down the sides and around the front of the neck. Elderberry was thrashing around so much that I felt a need to straddle her, holding her tightly between my knees, and cup her chin so I could shear down the sides of her neck. She didn’t like that much, but it conveyed to her the futility of continuing to fight me.

She was still wiggly when I returned to the task of opening up the fleece along her spine, but as I pulled away swaths of long, thick wool, a transformation came over her. My hand felt hot down there inside her fleece, next to her skin. As cool air touched her, I could see her eyes change. Sheep don’t express their emotions as clearly as dogs do, but there are signs to read in the position of the head, ears, and posture. Elderberry seemed surprised, and also content. From that moment, she stood stock still for the rest of the session, even allowing me to do the ticklish spots down her chest, under tail, and between her hind legs without a twitch of complaint.

Not that the entire shearing was uneventful, but the eventfulness came from other quarters.

I find the sheep are more comfortable being shorn within sight of their companions. I get right in the day’s paddock and work surrounded by the whole flock. My dog, Welley, comes in, too. He sometimes sniffs noses with his charges, but usually just finds a shady spot to lie down until I’m ready to throw his frisbee some more. His job is to keep the ram from becoming a nuisance. Hawthorn is generally pretty laid back, but I know I can’t trust him to not sneak up and use his head to let me know these girls belong to HIM. If I catch him backing up to ram me, all I have to do is shake a finger at him and say, “No, we don’t do that. Move along, now.” The key there is to keep an eye on him, which I can’t do while shearing. If he starts to hang out uncomfortably close to me, I call the dog. Hawthorn learns fast, though. Lately, all I have to say is, “Welley, come!” and Hawthorn decides the other end of the paddock is where he actually wants to be.

Meanwhile, Blackberry, a young ram born last winter, wanted my attention. He was a bottle lamb, which turned him very friendly, but also annoyingly bold if he doesn’t get the attention he craves. He stayed close to me almost the whole time I worked on his big sister. I had on a canvas vest with a lot of pockets. He managed to get ahold of a zipper pull and amuse himself by opening and closing that pocket. He liked the elastic toggle on my garden shoes, too. He’d give it a pull and let it go. Thwwwwapp! Thwwwwwapp! And then he’d just come over and lean on me, oh so lovingly, and nibble on the bare skin of my elbows and legs. That hurts! I had to bop him on the nose a couple of times with the back of a finger to get him to stop.

A professional shearer could do the job in less than five minutes. It takes me forty-five. But I don’t mind. Shearing time is a good opportunity to watch the flock, listen to them, enjoy the cool air on my own skin, pay attention to bird song, hear the wind in the trees, admire the fall colors, and just appreciate the privilege of working outside in such a beautiful place.

At the end, there’s a bagful of wool; soft, beautiful, and full of potential.

Fall Shearing

Transitions

Early September