The Orphan

It was cold and dark. Time to make up the milk. The lamb was hungry for its morning feed. The light in the kitchen was a mellow-yellow, weakly reflecting the margarine colored Formica counters as she put the electric kettle on to boil and got out the mixing bowl and powdered milk. Mother said the powdered milk here was different from the Carnation kind used in the States. It was like real milk. Whole tasting, full of fat and made a meal for the orphan lamb. The lamb’s bleating hurried her on. She knew Daisy was hungry waiting alone in the cold dark barn. Sara pulled her pink robe more tightly around her rather scrawny 12-year old frame and wrapped her straggly dark hair around her ears. The next part was tricky. Pouring mixed warm milk into the long necked bottle. Rich milk created thick foam from the mixing and smelled sweet and rich as Sara raised the bowl above the bottle’s neck and began to pour. She concentrated hard, ignoring the bleating, sounds of urgent need.

The red rubber teat had to be stretched over the long-necked glass bottle. With repeated use, it had gotten easier, but it had to be pulled down really far, and the rubber was still firm and tight. Her hands struggled with the slippery wetness and rubbery resistance. Daisy voraciously attacked her bottle she knew from experience. Sara was nervous to get this part done right. She knew what could happen if the teat tore off the bottle too soon and the lamb was frustrated with having to wait for more milk to be mixed.

As Sara left the now warming kitchen to walk to the barn, the bleating was more urgent, more frequent. The girl was happy and excited too. The joy both of them experienced at feeding time, the moment of satisfaction of needs met on both sides . Daisy, rushed to meet her, pushing against her legs with its square woolish head. Twisting her body away from the lamb’s head for a moment, anxious to meet the desperate need, Sara placed the bottle into her abdomen and planting her feet firmly and deliberately beneath her center. Taking both hands and pressing back with the bottle against her body, she gripped the bottle where the red teat rode the neck and held it tight, as she turned back to Daisy. Daisy lunged, mouth opening, to take the teat into her mouth quickly. Loud sucking sounds and Daisy’s fat tail flapped wildly to-and-fro, ‘round and ‘round, like a propeller prop, as she sucked.

The pulling and pushing was strong, very strong. Sara rocked on her feet. The neck became slippery. She worried she might lose the teat and moving her hands more tightly, adjusted her feet to find her center again. Froth dripped from the lamb’s mouth onto the ground; warm milk sloshed back and forth in the growing emptiness of the bottle. Then, suddenly, there was the sound of air. Sara reached forward to Daisy’s mouth and inserted a finger in the side to break the suction. Daisy let go and snorted to clear her nose, perhaps in displeasure, but also familiar with the routine of the ending. Sara and Daisy looked at each other - blue eyes and goat-like amber slitted ones. Reaching to touch her, reflexively, as a part of loving her, Sara noticed the clinging greasy lanolin feel that remained on her hands. The smell of it now also on her robe. Daisy turned to nibble on what she found on the ground. Sara turned in the dawning light to get ready for school.