Page 46 of Upstate
He chuckles. “You remember what I said, Audrey?”
I’m annoyed he’s finding this amusing. “What?”
“Some are born homesteaders, some achieve homesteading, and some . . .” He waits for me to fill in the blank.
“Some have homesteading thrust upon them, yeah, I remember. Like I told you, I’m not homesteading here. I just don’t want these sheep to die on me.”
The next few hours pass quickly. The vet arrives, his visit managed mostly by Lucinda while I look on. The deworming injections are easy enough for him to give, but shaving their split hooves requires an hour’s muddy effort. After he leaves, Aisha cuts her hours short to take her grandmother home. Wren texts back that he isn’t feeling well. Just allergies, he thinks, but he’d better stay home as a precaution. I’m left with no choice but to close the bookshop for the afternoon. I’m putting a handwritten note over the sign on Ridgetop Road when Sam’s pickup turns into my drive.
“Hey, Audrey.” Sam’s wearing the same outfit as when he came to walk the boundary with me: insignia shirt, cargo pants, floppy hat, hiking boots.
“Hi, Sam, thanks again for coming over.”
“No problem.” He takes off his sunglasses and blinks at the brightness of the day. “Let’s take a look at what you’ve got going on here.”
We keep our distance as we make our way down to the lower barn. I explain about the Cozy Cozy Lady and the livestream, then read him the note we found taped to the trailer. I expect the same judgment I heard from both Joe and Lucinda, but Sam just shakes his head.
“Sounds like they did their best. Most homesteaders fail within the first year or two. It’s incredibly hard to make a living off the land.”
“Well, thanks for sending that veterinarian.”
“Yeah, Ron’s a great guy. What did he charge you?”
I picture the invoice on my dining room table and wonder if I can last until October without a water heater. “One hundred for the visit, plus another hundred for each of the sheep he treated.”
“Sounds about right. I’m surprised he didn’t offer to develop a care and breeding protocol for you.”
“He did, but like I said, I’m not keeping them.”
We’ve arrived at the pens. The sheep have yanked up most of the grass they can reach, leaving their enclosure well on its way to becoming a barren barnyard.
“Unless you’re planning to have them processed,” Sam says, propping his elbows on a section of metal fence, “I think you might be stuck with them. Serious homesteaders breed their own flocks, and no one wants to bring diseased animals onto their land.”
“I keep hearing that word, ‘processed.’ Is that, like, rehabilitated?”
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “‘Processed’ means ‘butchered.’”
“Oh, God.” I feel a surge of protectiveness toward the filthy animals. David loved the taste of lamb, but the one and only time he cooked it in our apartment, the gamey smell made me gag.
“Well, if you’re not going to have them butchered, you’ll need to take care of them.” Sam points to the ram. “You might be able to offload that bad boy onto someone looking for a lamb ram.”
“Is that what it sounds like?”
“Pretty much. A lamb ram is brought onto a farm for the sole purpose of diversifying the flock’s gene pool before being sent to slaughter.”
I wince. “Does every scenario end with killing?”
“Not if you let them live out their lives here. Sheep are the easiest livestock animal there is. Even in winter, all they need is dry shelter and a few bales of first-cut hay.”
“You make it sound awfully easy.” I’m enchanted for a moment by the bucolic vision he’s painted. “What about shearing, though? I asked the vet, but he said that wasn’t his job.”
“No, shearing’s not worth a vet’s time. On the other hand, I’ve seen what happens when people think they can shear their own sheep after watching a few videos on YouTube.”
“What’s that?”
“The animals get hurt, or the people do. Severed tendons, bloody fleece, broken bones—you name it. You really have to know what you’re doing.”
I wait for Sam to continue, but he seems to be enjoying the pregnant pause. “Well, can you recommend anyone?”
