You see this butthole in the earth?

It swallows lambs.

The paddock nearest our cottage has multiple landfill pits from the previous owner, stuffed full of rubbish. Their concrete lids long overgrown, we made their discovery only after we had a logger in to process some of our tall cypress. The heavy machinery had cracked and skewed the subsurface pit lids, revealing what will perhaps be treasure troves to future archaeologists.

To our knowledge, these pits were full. That is, until I happened upon a completely empty one, three meters deep and containing not one, not two, but THREE LAMBS.

As Murphy’s Law would have it, it was when I arrived back after an exhausting two-hour hike through the steep local forest that I made this discovery. I was walking back through the paddock I had moved the sheep into that morning, and the thought hit me that I should make sure those pesky rubbish pit holes weren’t a hazard to the newborns. I was just about to block up a suspicious crack in the earth, when I heard the nervous bleat of a lamb echo up from below. FUCK.

I looked down through the crack, and sure enough I spotted the glow of white wool in the darkness a fair way down.

As drizzle arrived on cue, I began hacking away at the ground with a shovel, fatigued from my hike, not knowing how much I’d have to dig, but committed to saving these idiots. Fortunately, I soon uncovered the concrete lid which had been buried over time, concealing this hollow in the ground.

It was only at this point that I could see all the way down, realising the pit was entirely empty and at least three metres deep. I was a little worried about falling in. If I did, I wouldn’t have been able to get out, and with Char being away, no one would hear my screams… Mostly, though, I was concerned about the heavy concrete lid sitting precariously at an angle – I didn’t want to dislodge it and cause it to crash down on the little lambs below. I immediately attached a chain through the square hole which I hooked up to the tractor.

And with the strength of a hundred men, the tractor effortlessly excavated the concrete lid.

Which revealed…

Detrimentally-curious morons.

At this point I breathed a sigh of relief. The lambs were unscathed. I fetched a ladder and slid it carefully into the deep pit, avoiding knocking anyone out.

It’s difficult to see from the photos how deep this hole is, but for reference that’s a fully-extended four metre ladder.

Rescued! As I brought them up one by one, they each gave out a cry and a concerned mumma came running. They were all thirsty so immediately had a voracious suckle.

Far out, those are some lucky lambs. I had no idea that giant pit was there. All the other pits were full, and only this one had a tiny crack in the ground. Had I not had the random thought to check, those three would be goners overnight without their mothers’ milk.

Not sure how to fill the hole, so for the time being I’ve covered it with some pallets and scrap wood to make sure no fools fall in again. (I’m loath to fill it with our own garbage, but it’s either here or the landfill in town. I suppose the option with less transport is the more reasonable one…?)

Stay away from holes in the ground, you little suckers! Oh, the misadventures of livestock farming. Can we please just grow pomegranates?

There’s nothing softer in the entire universe than a lamb’s ear, with the exception of my masculinity when I stroke one.

On cue with the arrival of spring have come our first ever lambs. And my oh my, are they squidgeable.

You know that feeling you get when you see something so overwhelmingly adorable that you want to squish it? It’s called “cute aggression”, and these little darlings are no exception.

Those twins, a boy and a girl, are from our favourite ewe who has always been super friendly. Hopefully her offspring are just as tame. With the excessive ear-stroking they’ve been getting, they damn well should be.

They weren’t the first two to be born from our fifteen ladies. The first birthing was unfortunately tragic.

The first ewe to give birth did so during a cold stormy night. We think these two might have died of exposure, or poor mothering, or a combination.

One of them was still covered in amniotic sack, which indicated it hadn’t been cleaned. The mother’s first priority should be to clean the faces of her lambs to clear any fluid from their mouths and nostrils so they can breath, and then clean the rest of their bodies so they don’t get cold.

It was a sad sight to come upon, especially since these were our first two lambs. Poor mumma. We’ll have to keep an eye on her because her udder will swell with no lambs drinking from it, and she may develop mastitis.

We were hesitant to move the sheep to a more sheltered paddock because they were so heavily pregnant, but we figured it was for the best in case the weather didn’t clear.

When our favourite ewe’s lambs were born a couple days later, Char was away on business, so in my solitude I was especially anxious to make certain they were healthy, drinking, and warm. I must have checked on them ten times that first day. At one point I was concerned the ewe’s teats weren’t lactating properly, so I ended up squeezing them to see. Yes, I milked a sheep.

But all was well – even though I hadn’t seen the lambs directly suckling, they were bounding about full of energy, so they must have. It was gloriously sunny and those frigid westerly gales had ceased at last. The final day of winter bore clear skies and fresh healthy lambs.

Our favourite ewe is a smart one, we reckon. Textbook mothering. I found her not long after she must have given birth, rigorously cleaning her little babies.

Didn’t look like it tasted very nice…

Alpacino and Pacman were hovering nearby, curious and almost protective. Llamas have been known to exhibit protective behaviour around infants, so perhaps their alpaca cousins share that trait.

Gordon, like a lot of absent fathers, was off gallivanting with other ladies. The alpacas, however, obviously in the friend-zone but faultlessly supportive, stayed close.

Pacman, you could say, even looked… proud. Congratulations, you’re a… father? (Shh, don’t tell him.)

We look forward to seeing a couple dozen more bundles of fluff pop out over the next few weeks. Hopefully most survive and there are no instances of triplets needing special attention. We’ll post an update when all our pregnant ewes have mothered. In the mean time, here’s a video for you to explode with cute aggression: