A mother’s love…

On closer inspection, that bloated stomach was not the concerted efforts of anaerobic microbes working post-death. Rather, the source lay with the owner of that tiny white hoof that protruded ever so slightly from Elva’s vulva. 

The flag-bearing wave of the wee lamb who desperately wished to enter this plain.

Alas, Elva’s weakened state prevented her from meeting its demand. But thankfully, their saviour was about to give it their best shot. Stepping in to assist the farmer who was not able, little McLaren was soon tugged into this world. 

And although his fuzzy little head has proved to be cute beyond belief, it too was proved to be too big to passage out through his mumma’s birth canal with any sort of ease.

Empathy, we are told, takes many forms. And so, as Elva’s tale shows, it transcends many species. “One, two, three, push mumma. Push hard,” was urged. The groan of both was as visceral as it was audible. This urgency heightened with the sight of McLaren’s little blue tongue hanging limply from his mouth. 

“Push, mumma, push.” A gloved-up and well-lubricated hand went inside, echoing the urgency of this following plea. Gently moving the little one’s head about, this was the best that could be done to coax McLaren out. 

And soon into the world he responded with plop, and his mid-wife with heavy sigh. Quite an impressive size for such a sickly ewe. It was abundantly clear where Elva had put all of her energies – and it was not into herself. 

With nostrils quickly cleared and sides enthusiastically rubbed, McLaren coughed, spluttered, and was very much alive. With their jacket promptly removed, the kind-heart placed this around the newborn babe. 

Although relief was now hers, all dear Elva could do was lie there and pant. 

For how long she had lain there prone was best judged by the heavy pile of faeces at her rear end and the frantic scratchings her feet had made in her futile attempts to rise. One can only imagine her horror to be trapped in such a “straight-jacketed” world.

“Good job, girl. Good job,” Elva was rewarded as her not-so-little boy was brought into view.

Her undeniable maternal nicker said it all – love, unbridled love. 

Relieving the farmer of the unwanted burden of rehabilitating Elva and potentially hand-raising her baby, was to relieve mother and baby of a bleak and uncertain future. Trading this for sanctuary, serenity and kindness now know them well.

And so do we. Besotted, best now describes us.

As we suspected, Elva had little colostrum on hand, but that did not diminish her desire to rear her beloved baby. And so, we discreetly stepped in every now and then to help her raise a happy and healthy little son. 

And history, we are pleased to say, will record that we and Elva have done well. They have found their place in the sun, and we have found an opportunity to exercise the best of our humanity: knowing when to step in, knowing when to step out, and never intruding on a mother’s love for her boy.