There are times I catch myself moaning about my job. And on those occasions I like to remind myself that, around now, my father would have been up to his armpits – often literally – in lambing season.
Because in comparison to that, I have NOTHING to complain about.
Lambing is exhausting.
It’s physically, mentally and emotionally draining.
I never saw Dad as worn out as during those manic weeks in early spring when he’d go out before dawn and return after dark, sapped of all energy and stinking of damp fleece.
While the rest of us got excited about daffodils and lengthening days, his life shrunk to work, eat, sleep, repeat, with the occasional change of boiler suit when the one he was wearing could do a better job of standing up unaided than he could.
You know how you’re always surprised when there’s a fall of snow mid-April? I’m not. Because at least one day every year, the drizzle would turn to snow and the task of trying to keep newborn lambs on the right side of death’s door on a Perthshire hillside 600ft above sea level would suddenly become 600 times harder.
And we’re talking about sheep here. These are creatures whose capacity for doing the stupidest, most reckless, life-shortening thing never ceases to amaze.
Sheep need no help to make the task of gestating, delivering and rearing their offspring any more perilous. They are perfectly capable of wrecking everything all by themselves.
So when I saw the photos of Stuart McDougall seated next to a trailer loaded with blood-soaked lambs in the aftermath of a suspected dog attack, I recognised the heartache in his weary face.
Mr McDougall made headlines after he vented his frustrations on social media this week.
Are ‘lockdown puppies’ behind sheep worrying cases?
The 43-year-old went out to his fields near Kelty on Monday to find six of the days-old animals dead.
Another 11 had to be put down by a vet because their injuries were so severe.
Police are investigating. But the farm’s vet suspects the attack was the work of “a large, able dog”.
And it’s far from an isolated incident.
Grace Reid, regional coordinator of the National Sheep Association, told The Courier about a dog that was filmed running loose among her flock near Auchterarder a few weeks ago.
Perthshire farmer turned MSP Jim Fairlie said cases of sheep worrying had risen in recent years and suggested “lockdown puppies” might be a reason.
“Folk got dogs during Covid and don’t know how to deal with them and don’t appreciate a dog’s hunting instincts,” he said.
“They think their dog is lovely and would never do something like that but even the best trained dogs can lose concentration and recall if they get excited… with sheep all bets are off.”
Sheep worrying went on long before the pandemic
He’s probably got a point. But livestock-worrying is not a new phenomenon.
Mr Fairlie, SNP MSP for Perthshire South and Kinross-shire, had 11 of his own sheep killed by an out-of-control dog in 2016.
And I dare say if I was to go back through The Courier’s records I’d find similar reports every single year.
There are lots of complicated problems in the world. But sheep worrying really isn’t one of them.
Farmers say while sheep worrying has always been a problem, it has been getting worse in the last few years.
I've been speaking to @JimFairlieLogie who says an increase in people buying puppies during lockdown might be the reason why. @thecourieruk 👇https://t.co/FJAXR5Up5A
— Rachel Amery (@RachelAmery) April 6, 2023
It’s down to us, as dog owners – and by extension likely animal lovers – to do better.
And I’m probably sounding all smug and holier-then-thou here. But that includes me too.
Penalties aren’t worth the risk
The other week I was out for a walk with my dad, now retired and far enough removed that he can look back on lambing with relieved fondness.
The spaniels were on leads because they are idiots. But my little old terrier, who is 84 in dog years and can normally be counted upon to conduct herself, was trotting along behind us.
Until she wasn’t.
She’d squeezed under a gap in a fence and was rooting around under some gorse bushes in the (thankfully empty) field beside the path.
We got her out, with a little gentle persuasion. But not before a man walking towards us with his own dog (unleashed but under control) told us she should have been on the lead.
I was mortified. Dad leapt to my defence, because he is my dad and always will. But we both knew he’d given strangers stern bollockings for less before he retired.
And when, a little further up the path, we reached another field, in which a flock of sheep which had not been there the week before were grazing, I felt sick to the stomach at the thought of what might have happened.
So I haven’t gone back there.
I’ve cut a bunch of walks out of my normal rota and I’m sticking to woods so far from farmland that there’s no danger of running into lambing ewes.
Is it inconvenient? A little.
Am I having to drive a little further and keep the dogs on leads a little more often? Yes.
Is it better than risking a £40,000 fine, 12 months in jail, my dog being shot and the devastation of some poor farmer who’s working harder than I’ll ever understand just to try to make a living?
You don’t need me to answer that.
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