Vegetarian Ranchwife

I witnessed the first sheep feed of the year last week, when, after dropping the kids off from school, I crested the hill just above our house I saw Kem’s truck out in the pasture, surrounded by a knot of hungry sheep. As he began to drive the truck in a slow circle, dropping cake out of the feeder they ran along behind him, spreading out into a sheep ring. I haven’t helped feed the cows yet, but Kem tells me they’re leaping their huge pregnant bodies in joy at the site of his truck.

For the ranch, winter feedings become the day’s anchor. Every other task comes after. But for kids with school and busy schedules (who the hell made this schedule, anyways?), and the mom who’s in charge of getting them there, once a week is all we can manage.

This last Sunday, after much grumbling and complaining, we rounded the kids out of their lazy morning and headed out to feed the sheep. The old ewes remember that the truck means food and came running, followed by the younger sheep. Still, they’re all skittish from a summer and fall with almost no human contact. Out in the pasture, surrounded by the herd, we were all happy we’d changed out of our PJs.

A few of our pets approached, gingerly taking the pieces of cake we offered out of our hands. We scattered some cake on the ground, enticing the rest of the herd to come closer, but if we made the slightest move, they would scatter. It’ll take a few weeks, but they’ll gentle down, or, more precisely, grudgingly tolerate our shenanigans because they know it comes with food.

I have an essay, “Eating From Our Hands,” that I’m currently trying to find a home for. It’s about this relationship we build with our animals through feeding, both the feeding of the herd, and hand feeding the pets. It’s been on my mind as start up this yearly ritual. I hope it finds a publisher eventually because it’s the heart of our ranch life.

We could just get the feeding out of the way and move on with our day. Sometimes, Kem and the ranch hands do just that. It’s a daily chore, after all. But these moments when we spend a little time with our pets and see if we can’t make another friend or two, remind us why we chose this job, this life, with all its hard physical labor, all the dirt, all the grit.

Well, sort of. I call myself a ranchwife even though I rarely feel like one. With the kids’ stages in life, I spend most of my time driving kids to school, to appointments, to activities. In my whinier moments, I say that I’m just a suburban mom with a crappy commute. And I sometimes wonder why we live way out in the sticks when it just means long drive to school every day.

Then Sunday feedings come around, and there’s that old ewe sniffing our hands, looking at us with hopeful eyes, a cow wrapping her long tongue around a piece of cake, and most of your hand, sliming you in the most delightful way possible. This is why we do it, all of it. We’ve got friends out here.