Do The Funky Lamb

We think we finally figured out the reason for Lambchop’s mysterious limp (see yesterday’s post).

Try as I might, I can't seem to get her weaned—not even after a week in a separate pen with nothing but hay, water, and her own thoughts. Lambchop is stubborn, determined, and apparently training for some kind of sheep-level Olympic sport. She’s about half the size of her mother and twice as wide. She’s developed a rather... creative technique for nursing, since she's too big to maneuver herself into the normal nursing position.

Here’s the scene:

She backs up about ten feet like a batter getting into the zone. She plants her feet—seriously, it looks like a bull squaring up for a charge—leans back just a smidge, takes a deep breath, and goes for it.

Head down.
Momentum building.
Eyes on the prize.

She takes aim and charges at full speed. Right before impact, she spreads her front legs wide and belly-flops into a full-speed slide, slamming into her mother’s udder with the force of a cannonball. The impact nearly knocks Mama Sheep sideways. Mom stumbles, looks vaguely offended, and then, like all long-suffering mothers, just sighs and continues on about her business.

And here I am watching this little wool missile launch herself across the pen like it’s completely normal. Now I'm no vet, but something tells me it might just be that front leg spread and full-body skid that’s messing up her shoulder. Just a hunch.

Still, I think she’s onto something. If TikTok ever discovers this move, it’s going viral. I’m calling it “The Funky Lamb.” Step 1: Back up. Step 2: Launch yourself like a bowling ball. Step 3: Skid on your belly into the heart of whatever problem you're trying to solve. Bonus points for dramatic flair.

McSheep At McDonalds?

The plan was simple: take Levite, one of our Great Pyrenees, to the vet for a re-check on an ear infection they found when he went in for his shots. While I was at it, I figured I’d bring along Lambchops—our three-month-old Rambouillet lamb—because she’d been limping and favoring her right front leg. I couldn’t see anything wrong, but since we were already making a trip to the land of poking and prodding, we might as well toss a sheep into the mix.

    Now, Lambchops is not exactly built for carpooling. So I loaded up a large dog crate in the back of the truck, and Grandson helped load her in. We tossed a blanket over the crate and strapped it down—because nothing says “we’re totally normal” like a covered mystery crate in the bed of a pickup.

The vet said Levite’s ear was healing fine and
couldn’t find anything obviously wrong with Lambchops. Probably just pulled a muscle doing whatever it is lambs do when they’re unsupervised—parkour, maybe. Diagnosis: Rest, and maybe don’t let her try to leap off the hay bale like she’s a stunt double in Lamb Hard: With a Vengeance.

So we’re headed home, and Grandson—now of driving age, though not quite of driver’s license—was behind the wheel with me riding shotgun. We were both hungry, and since neither of us had packed a lunch (because that would have required planning ahead, which we absolutely did not), we decided to swing through McDonald’s.

Grandson was on the ordering side. We rolled up to the speaker, and this is where things took a turn.

McDonald’s Voice: “Hi, welcome to McDonald’s! May I take your order?”

Grandson: “Give us just a minute—”

And then… from the back of the truck, Lambchops let loose.

BAAAAAA.

Now this wasn’t your sweet little Mary had a little lamb baa. This was more like burly trucker just crushed a can of Mountain Dew and let one rip. A deep, echoing, full-chested BAAAAA that shook the tailgate.

McD: (chuckling) “Okay, just let me know when you’re ready.”

Grandson: (a few seconds later, trying not to laugh) “Okay, we’re ready—”

Lambchops: “BAAAAAA.”

Grandson: “We’ll have a—” BAAAAAA “—#6 with a Coke—” BAAAAAA “—and a #8 with a diet, no—” BAAAAAA “—ice.”

By this point, the McDonald’s worker was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

McD: “Will that be all?”

Grandson: (barely able to breathe) “Yes.”

Lambchops: “BAAAAAAA.”

We pulled up to the first window, and the poor woman had tears running down her cheeks. She was completely speechless. Couldn’t even take our money at first. Just stood there, clutching the register for support, while Lambchops continued her unsolicited commentary on our lunch choices.

Grandson, still laughing so hard he was wheezing, leaned over and whispered, “I really hope they don’t arrest me for sexual harassment. I can’t control the sheep.”

So if you happened to be working at the McDonald’s that day—or behind us in the drive-thru—and you’re still telling people about the unseen lamb that heckled the combo order: Yes, she was real. Yes, her name is Lambchops. And yes, she will loudly critique the menu selections.

Just another normal day at American Way Farm—where the vet bills are high, the sheep are mouthy, and the drive-thru comes with a side of farm-fresh chaos.