Moral Disorder - Margaret Atwood [56]
In February, with the snow whipping across the icy fields, the ewes lambed. One of them had triplets, and rejected the smallest of her three lambs: Tig found it shivering and trembling in a corner of the stall. Tig and Nell took the disowned lamb inside the house and wrapped it in a towel and put it into the wicker laundry basket, and wondered what to do next. Unfortunately, one of the lambs left with the ewe stuck its head between two boards in the stall and froze to death, so in theory the third, runty lamb could have replaced it; but the mother would have nothing to do with the desolate little creature.
“It must smell wrong to her,” said Nell. “It’s been with us.”
Mrs. Roblin told them to put the wrapped-up lamb inside the oven with the door open and the heat on low and feed it brandy with an eye dropper, so that is what they did. She came over in person to make sure they were doing it right. She treated Nell and Tig as if they were slightly dim-witted children – a few bricks short of a load, as the local farmers were in the habit of saying. The lamb was bleating feebly and kicking a little; Mrs. Roblin looked into its eyes and then its mouth and said it would most likely make it through. Nell wanted to know how she could tell, but felt it would be stupid to ask.
Day by day the lamb grew stronger. Nell cradled it in her arms while feeding it; she was embarrassed to find herself rocking it and singing to it.
“What’s its name?” said the boys.
“It doesn’t have a name,” said Nell. She wasn’t going to fall into the trap of naming it.
Soon the lamb was standing up, drinking milk from a baby bottle. Tig made it a stall in the summer kitchen, where it was given fresh straw bedding every day; but as it became friskier and wanted to run and leap, they decided it was a shame to keep it cooped up, so they let it into the house. On the slippery linoleum – the new, slippery linoleum they’d laid down, with a pattern in the shape of tiles – its four legs splayed out and it had trouble keeping its balance. But soon it had mastered the art, and was bouncing here and there, twirling its long woolly tail.
It couldn’t be toilet-trained, however. It peed whenever it felt the urge, and left piles of shiny brown raisin-sized pellets on the linoleum. Nell made it a diaper out of a green plastic garbage bag, cutting holes for the back legs and the tail, but that was worse than useless.
At the end of March, the peahen was found dead on the floor of the barn, underneath its crossbeam perch. A weasel must have gone up there during the night, said Mrs. Roblin: weasels would do that. The peacock was hanging around the crumpled body, looking confused. What will become of him now? thought Nell. He’s all alone.
By April, the lamb was too big to be kept in the house. He was becoming too strong, too boisterous. They put him into the barnyard with the cows and sheep, but he didn’t make friends with the other lambs. He kept to himself, except when Tig went into the yard to feed the animals. Then, when Tig’s back was turned, the lamb would take a run at him and slam into him from behind.
It was a different story with Nell. When she appeared, the lamb would come over to her and nuzzle against her; then he’d stand between her and Tig.
Tig had to take a length of two-by-four into the barnyard to defend himself. When the lamb came running at him he’d whang it on the forehead. The lamb would shake its head and back off, but soon enough he would try again.
“He thinks it’s a contest,” said Nell.
“He’s in love with you,” said Tig.
“I’m glad somebody is,” said Nell.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Tig, aggrieved.