The flock had moved on, and she had been left behind. She had been weak for a few days, and it was now clear that she was suffering from pregnancy toxemia. Some ewes develop this condition when the nutritional demands of their fetuses during the final months of pregnancy exceed what the mother can provide, putting her into an energy deficit. It is a metabolic disorder which, if it progresses, can be fatal. We had to prioritise the safety of the flock, as they were about to walk a kilometre along the road with us on foot, and when you are responsible for nine hundred animals, the safety of the many has to come first.

When we returned to the place where the ewe had lain down more than twenty minutes earlier, she was gone. Presumably, she had tried to follow the flock on instinct. I started calling for her as we usually do and slowly followed the flock’s trail in the van. Eventually, I spotted her about twenty metres away, lying among some brambles beside a field of maize. She weighed at least eighty kilos and could no longer walk. With some effort, I managed to drag her into the middle of the track, where I had parked the van with the rear door open. Getting her into it in that condition was going to be difficult, especially as it was midday on a summer day with temperatures around thirty degrees. Unexpectedly, as soon as she saw the van, she got to her feet on her own and, with considerable effort, climbed into the back without any help from me. Once inside, she collapsed and looked at me. All I had to do was close the door and take her back to the sheepfold. Thanks to having some experience with pregnancy toxemia, the ewe was back with the flock, healthy and strong, within four days. Two months later, she gave birth to three lambs.

I still get emotional when I think back to that day. This ewe is no longer part of our flock because she reached the end of her productive life. Although she could be a bit of a handful and was rather lazy, she was one of the first sheep we bought, before we became professional livestock farmers, and for that reason we have always had a soft spot for her. That day, she showed me one of the most difficult and beautiful things an animal can give you: trust.

Trust is not easy to earn. Good handling is essential, but time is what really makes the difference. Patience is something you practise every day in this job. You can do everything by the book and still fail to earn an animal’s trust.

For years, we repeat the same gestures without giving them much thought: the same voice when we call them, the same routines, the same paths. To us, these things are simply part of the daily routine. For the animals, however, that repetition creates a predictable world in which they feel safe. And it works the other way around too. Over time, we learn to recognise the faces, behaviours and needs of individual animals. We also learn to recognise when the flock is stressed, settled, or simply not in the mood to cooperate and we need to send the herding dog in to bring some order.

Personality is another crucial factor. Some animals are naturally affectionate and will come to you from the very beginning to be stroked, without being easily startled. Others, on the contrary, will never let you touch them. The ewe in this story was one of the latter. Always distant, she was a calm animal that kept away from any attempt at affection or contact. That is why what she did meant so much to me.

Although she had never shown it before, that day, at such a vulnerable moment, she demonstrated that she knew where she would find refuge. I cannot say that with certainty, for she was not human, and I am not a sheep, but after years of familiarity, trust and reciprocity, that is how it felt to me.

And I am sure many farmers know exactly what I’m talking about.