I'll never forget the morning Midnight died. I went to school late that morning. In many ways this fall morning was not unique. Many mornings just like this came before, many would come after. My dad woke me up bright and early and we herded the fattened lambs into the back of his old farm truck. After a long struggle, we managed to wrangle them in and slam shut the door.
Lambs to the slaughter.
The story, of course, began months before: I had begun helping my dad every morning with the chores. I would wake up an hour earlier than usual to feed bottle lambs, throw chunks of hay and fill buckets of water. I loved being my dad's "little helper."
And one day, a lamb was born whose mother died. This happened frequently, but I loved this lamb more than most. This lamb was also one of the "good" lambs; it was all black with only one small spot of white on its forehead. I always liked the black lambs most of all. I fell in love. My dad, likely wanting to teach me some responsibility, gave me the lamb as my own. It wouldn't be my last sheep, but as my first, I loved it the most of all. I named him Midnight.
There was, of course, a problem. Midnight was a boy lamb. Boy lambs have little utility on a sheep farm. Boy lambs don't have babies, and they can't be saved for breeding purposes lest the herd become a scene straight out of rural Arkansas (Happy Birthday, Uncle Dad). So boy lambs are castrated when they're about a month old and then sold once they reach a certain weight.
Not just sold. Slaughtered. After all, that lamb you buy at the grocery store has to come from somewhere.
I never ate lamb growing up.
I knew from the beginning that Midnight wasn't mine to keep. I knew from the beginning that he'd be my best friend only for the summer, and as summer's heat moved into fall's crispy coolness, Midnight would be my paycheck.
We had a glorious summer, though. Being raised as a bottle lamb, Midnight was more tame than the rest of the lambs. He followed me everywhere, even after he stopped drinking from the bottle. We'd go "bale-jumping." For you city slickers, this entailed climbing up onto 5-foot tall "round bales" of hay which were stacked in rows. Once on one bale, we'd jump from row to row. There would usually be at least 3 or 4 feet of space between rows, so jumping included a certain degree of risk.
Midnight was fearless. Where I jumped, he jumped.
How I loved him.
Strangely enough, I don't remember dreading the morning we sold him. I don't remember shedding any tears. I don't even remember missing him afterward. All I remember is posing with Midnight for a couple pictures the morning we had him killed. We stood outside the house, me holding his ears up so he would look strange. I remember walking through the bowels of the stockyards with him and the other lambs, making sure they all followed the correct path. I remember leaving him and the others in a pen somewhere and walking away. I remember being excited about the $85 I made.
This was the way of things.
I had so many kittens growing up. Most died in horrific ways. Run over by cars on the road. Ring-worm infested, prolapses, starved to death. This was the way of things.
On a farm, life moves to a different rhythm. On a farm, life is about death. Life is about practicality and about necessity. Life is about money and profitability. There wasn't room in my life for sentimentality and softness.
As the oldest of three daughters, I think I became the son my father never had. I don't necessarily think he expected me to play that role. I took it on myself. I don't know why. Maybe I was uniquely suited for the harsh reality of life and death on a farm.
Eventually, I left it all behind. By high school, I wanted nothing to do with the sheep. I went on to college, became a history major. I moved to a city, I experienced the unsettling juxtaposition that was so often presented by conversations with my dad about life on the farm. I remember standing in my kitchen in Bellingham listening to my dad tell me about a c-section he performed on a sheep, and I remember wondering how it was possible to be living such a different life from my origins.
And yet, my growing-up years on a farm molded me into the person I am today.
My upbringing affords me the ability to detach myself emotionally from death and suffering. I can appreciate intellectually that people might be upset, but myself am unmoved.
My upbringing leaves me relatively "fearless." Spiders? Bring 'em on. Snakes? No biggie. The dark? Hahahahahahaha, I live for the dark. I grew up playing games in the dark. Small spaces? All the better to hide in during hide and seek. Blood? Saw plenty of that.
I do wish, though, that I could feel things like other people do. I wish that suffering moved me, if only because it might spur me to action. When someone's hurting, my default reaction is often "get over it." That's not okay.
If I could go back, I would allow myself to cry over Midnight's loss. I would at least ask my dad if we could keep him, even if all he did was eat our hay and corn and get fat for the rest of his life. If I could go back, I would allow the death that accompanies life on a farm to penetrate my defenses. I would allow it to hurt a bit, if only as a reminder that sometimes life is about more than just practicality.
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