I was ten years old, and spring had come to NorthHarbour. Mud tracked in on white tile floors, runny noses, and the first dregsof heat from the sun were tell-tale signs. Lambs were dropping from thetwenty-two ewes in pairs and triplets and my father spent a lot of time in thestable.

This was different than other springs in that thelambs were more plentiful. We’d lost neither sheep to a dog over the winter.Dad was allowing we’d have a good fall when the meat man came, and money wasexchanged for the youngest in the flock.

Long-term plans meant the pantry would be filledand we could get an extra blouse or shirt for school in September. A goodspring lambing season made things easier in the fall.

Every day we’d get off the school bus and run inthe lane to a chorus of bleats from the meadow as the tiny lambs found theirlegs and gamboled in murmuration as if conducted by some invisible sheeporchestrator.

There were still three or four left to lamb whenDad came in and mentioned one of the sheep was having a hard time. Through thewindow he pointed as the sheep spasmed in labour on the side of the hill. Shetried to get up when Mom and Dad went to her, but the poor thing wasn’t able tostand.

As children do, we lost interest to the suppertable and forgot about the sheep until much later when Mom returned. Since itwas still fairly cold at night for the littlest, and two sheep had yet tobirth, Dad put all the animals in the stable and the one that struggled hadfinally given birth to three.

The next morning, he came in with a lamb drapedover his hand and asked Mom to make a bottle of milk. She had bottles for justsuch things since it was commonplace to help a struggling lamb along until itwas big enough to be put back with the others. Sometimes the ewe needed helpand sometimes she wouldn’t accept the lamb. The latter, Dad dreaded becausewhat it cost in milk to keep them wouldn’t be made up in the fall. He’d makeseveral attempts to ply the ewe with her lamb.

Mom dreaded these “legacies” as she called themfor a different reason. The bottle-fed ones hung around the door long afterthey’d been weaned. She’d often come from Nanny’s in the dark and when she’dnear the step, the sheep would scramble to life on the other side of the fenceand start to baa, that would frighten the others and there’d be a big racket.She’d get a start and batter them away, but they’d be back bawling for milk atsunrise.

So, this morning, Mom was making porridge and shegave me the lamb to feed. She dipped her finger in the molasses and spread iton the rubber nipple and laid the warm bottle in my hand.

I was excited to take on this new activity. It,among other things, made me feel more mature than my ten years. The littlething shivered, and its heart thumped softly beneath my fingers. I was smitten.

Once it got the taste of the sweet molasses, itslowly drew on the milk. The little lamb’s mouth foamed as it suckled once itgot the hang of it. I decided to name it Lambchops after a puppet I’d seen ontelevision.

Dad put a carboard box behind the stove andcovered the bottom with an old towel. Once the lamb had fed, I laid Lambchopsinto the box where it could stay warm. The fire was low, just enough to take achill off the house so Dad figured it was the best place for my first pet.

After school I sat on the daybed and fed the tinylamb a few more times. Dad said he didn’t hold out much hope for its survival,but we’d do everything we could to make it possible.

By the weekend, the lamb became stronger.Lambchops was three days old and could almost stand without falling over. Dadtried to put the lamb under its mother, but she had two thriving others andrefused to feed Lambchops. She pucked it away and Dad decided we’d feed it fora few more days and then try again.

I was delighted. Sunday was sunny so I tookLambchops to the meadow and sat on a piece of cardboard as the lamb fed andslept. I stroked its side and petted the tiny body as the other lambs playedaround me. Lambchops wasn’t as big as any of them now and all the ewes hadlambed. Still, though a runt, she’d have a chance and catch up to them in notime.

The Carnation Milk was getting a good cutting fromthe pantry as I kept Lambchops fed. My time before and after the school buscame and went was dedicated to Lambchops.

By this time the back gap was opened and thesheep, no longer corralled, wandered off and fed on grass around the community.I stayed longer in the meadow with Lambchops. She was standing now and makingattempts to gambol as she figured out she had legs. Dad moved the box to thestable, added some hay for comfort, and she stayed with the others at night. Iwent out to feed her as the rest of the flock took off for the day.

Lambchops was about two weeks old when I came homefrom school to find she’d gone. Dad said she’d found her mother and the ewe hadfinally accepted her.

I was happy for Lambchops but saddened just thesame. A part of me wanted to care for Lambchops forever. Though I knew it wasselfish, I was disappointed at Lambchops independence.

When the sheep returned that evening, I looked forher but she wasn’t with the flock. Dad checked the stable and around the backgap but the lamb was not to be found. I stayed on the top of the hill andlistened for the sound of the little lamb bawling but there was none. Isearched the woods on Soaker’s Path just beyond the gate. I was usually a bitfrightened to go beyond the gap alone, so I didn’t do it. But my desire to findmy little charge was more important and fear knew that so didn’t bubble to thesurface.

Dad believed Lambchops had made it so far with thesheep but hadn’t been able to keep up. He said the ewe might have left herbehind then as she kept up with the flock.

I was flabbergasted by this notion and simplycouldn’t believe it. I thought the lamb had wandered away from the rest,probably fell asleep and didn’t wake when the draw to home took over and thesheep returned. I pictured Lambchops wandering in the drizzle of the lateevening frantically searching for me or her mother. I believed it was in thatorder and that I had a responsibility to find her.

I took a flashlight and scoured the ridge outsidethe fence calling to Lambchops and listening for her. I imagined her coming tothe top of the path and seeing me and running to me. She’d never go with hermother again but stay under my protection.

But alas, Mom called me home for the night andLambchops was scared and alone in my thoughts and my dreams that night. Thenext day I met Dad by the stable to see if a miracle had happened and Lambchopswas there. But he shook his head.

I went to school with a heavy heart, thinking of Lambchopsand hoping she’d be there when I got home. Lambchops hadn’t returned. I went ona wider search, looking for the sheep hangout and didn’t find Lambchops.

By the third day I became frantic to find her. She’dbe hungry and cold, and I just wanted to feed her and lay her behind the stoveand protect the essence of her.

After supper Dad mentioned that somebody had foundthe lamb dead in the woods. Well to say I was devastated would put it mildly. Iflung myself on the couch, my face buried into the pillow, and I screechedunconsolably for hours. I went to bed with a headache and drank a glass ofwater so I could have more tears for Lambchops. I didn’t think I’d criedenough.

The next day I wanted to find the lamb’s motherthat had lured Lambchops away, but all the sheep looked alike to me. I wantedto shout at her and call her a bad ewe for what she’d done to Lambchops. I wassad and heartbroken for my poor little lamb.

I was two or three weeks trying to get over herloss, the maddening anger I felt toward Lambchops’ mother, and the devastationof being without the love of the lamb stayed with me until I woke up one day and was no longer sad.

This was my first encounter with loss and grief. Itchanged the child I was, and I fed lambs the next year but didn’t want theattachment that I’d came to have to Lambchops for fear of losing them and beingthat hurt again. Or maybe I just grew out of the notions my younger self had.

Spring, when the shoots of new grass poke throughthe yellowed and muddied tangle blanketing the meadows, I sometimes think ofLambchops and my lesson on grief. I smile at the silliness of how it all playedout and my childish beliefs but at the time it was very real for my wounded andcompassionate ten-year-old heart.