Page 62 of Home Hearts Hooves

“It is, the leaves and grass under the trees are anyway, but they’ve been cutting off branches with fruit from the looks of it, and the sheep have been eating the bark too. The seeds and bark can be too hard to digest in large quantities, see here,” I say, cutting open the stomach and pulling out undigested handfuls of seed. It’s not a pretty sight, but Dean stays with me through them all, watching as I work.

I finish off the rest of the post-mortems and clear the boys to take them away.

Then we look over the rest of the herd, the fellas had already separated the ones looking not quite right into the front pasture.

“Keep these ones separated in the closest paddock so you can keep an eye on them. Give magnesium carbonate every six to eight hours and monitor them closely. Offer plenty of fresh water and call me if any of them start showing signs of respiratory distress,” I tell them and all the farm hands nod in agreement.

“Keep checking the rest of the herd, too. Pull aside any that look like they’re having trouble passing feces or not eating, any that look bloated or not wanting to stand up either. Basically any signs of something not right.”

“We will,” Mr. Fletcher says, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow. “I can’t believe I’m what’s done this to them. The poor things. I just wanted them to be fed.”

“I know. How about we grab some tea and talk about some alternate feed options?”

“That would be great, thanks,” he says, and we follow him into the house. Dean hasn’t said much, but he’s been scrolling and tapping on his phone since we moved on from the post-mortem.

“You okay?” I ask him as we sit side by side on the floral couch of Mrs. Fletcher’s sitting room.

“I was just getting the boys to check the grounds for olive trees. I remember Gramps tried to grow some trees a while back, too, but I can’t remember what we did with them when it failed.”

“I can’t say I remember seeing any trees on the grounds, but like I said to Mr. Fletcher, it’s normally great to have sheep graze an olive grove, the grass is rich with nutrients and the leaves from the olive trees are amazing for them, too. But when they run out of fresh grass and start eating the bark and olives, they should be moved out to fresh grounds to prevent them getting any digestive issues.”

“I figured it was best to be safe. Connor reckons there are a couple out on the cow pastures. Will Mr. Fletcher get into trouble?”

“I was just about to ask the same thing,” Mr. Fletcher says, coming in behind his wife who’s carrying a tray of teacups and a pot of steaming tea. It wobbles a little and Dean is on his feet in a heartbeat, collecting it from her hands and setting it down on the table. It’s the most balanced I’ve seen him wearing that boot since he got it.

“You didn’t know. The good thing is we caught it before the majority of the herd were in danger.”

Mrs. Fletcher rubs Mr. Fletcher’s shoulder.

“He moved over the first three dozen two weeks ago, to see how they went. We only moved the rest of them out yesterday,” she says.

“Lucky,” Dean replies, and Mr. Fletcher sighs.

“Not for the ones we lost.”

“No, not for them,” Dean says.

“I thought we’d talk through some alternate feed options,” I say, moving the conversation on to what we can do now.

“I’ve looked into the alternatives out there. It’s all just too expensive. I might have to reduce the herd, at least until the main paddocks reseed,” he says, and Dean shifts in his seat to pull out his phone.

“Sorry, I just have to check in with the ranch. I’ll be back in a second,” he says and staggers out the door.

I go through all the options again with them, and unfortunately, I don’t offer anything new. They really did do their research. They don’t have any other land to keep them on and only have about half the funds they would need to get the whole herd well-fed through until they get back on their feet. It’s too familiar, their story. It’s why half the farms surrounding Bellerelle have sold up and moved on. Generational farms are now in new hands, and too many of them are earmarked for housing developments.

“There are a few grants for farms like yours that the government funds. I’d be happy to provide any supporting documents you need, as a major producer of wool and meat in the state, you’d be in with a good shot,” I say, and Mr. Fletcher smiles and nods as his wife sips her tea.

“That’s great for next season, but I’m afraid it won’t save me from having to cull numbers now.”

“I think I have a way to help now,” Dean says from the doorway.

“You should be resting. Come, sit,” Mrs. Fletcher says, ushering him to retake his seat beside me.

“I’m not sure you can come up with anything we haven’t already thought of,” he says, and Dean smiles widely.

“I reckon I can, and I’d be willing to bet one of Sally-May’s apple pies on it.”

“How is Sally-May?” Mrs. Fletcher asks.

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