The Perils of Milking Grass-Fed Sheep

Ok, there are only two words to describe this morning. Squits, projectile. I’ll just let that sink in.

Get the picture? But why use two words when two thousand will suffice? Here’s what happened.

We were about half way through milking (230 sheep in) when, about 3 sheep to my right (and we work left to right), one cocked it’s tail and deposited a smelly heap of slightly liquid crap. I do apologise if you’re eating your breakfast right now, but I like to tell it how it is. Quite often when this happens, we try and take our time or somehow avoid it and therefore make someone else milk it. This morning however, I was the only person in the vicinity of this sheep, and had no choice but to milk it myself. There are 2 main reasons we dislike milking sheep like this. One is that you end up with crap on your hands from touching the unit which has been well coated. Two is that it may release more while your hands are under it’s tail. This particular ewe had a couple more tricks up it’s sleeve. As soon as I touched the unit, it began jumping, dancing and kicking. This is bad enough on a clean sheep, but when it’s flicking it’s heels in a steaming pile of crap, it makes it 100 times worse. I was gingerly attempting to milk it while ducking and diving to avoid flying specks when, with no warning whatsoever, it fired out a stream of greenish, pungent diarrhea.

Now I am a woman of average height, which means that my nose is pretty much on a level with the tails of the sheep in the parlour. I can see what you’re thinking. Thankfully, the laws of physics apply. By the time the warm, stinking mess reached me, gravity had taken effect and it had dropped a few inches. It landed in, and on, my collar. I was wearing a zip-up sweatshirt and a shirt underneath, both slightly undone at the top. I stared in shock for a few seconds at the mess sliding down the front of my sweatshirt, and then attempted to remove it without spreading it further. I kind of rolled the sweatshirt up from the bottom, trying to contain everything, and then draw it over my head. This didn’t really work as well as I’d hoped. I removed the sweatshirt, but spread the contents on my chin in the process. I grabbed handfuls of wet-wipes and tried to clean my chin, and remove the gobs of poo on the outside, and inside, of my shirt collar. Basically, I spread it around a bit, making the affected area worse, and damp into the bargain. There wasn’t much I could apart from strip further, and it wasn’t a particularly warm morning. I had to spend the next hour and a half with a damp shirt, the aroma reaching my nostrils every time I moved.

Thank you for letting me share that with you, I wish I could share the smell too, as I am heartily sick of it now.

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