Back in March, on one of those early spring snowstorms that makes you question your own life choices, we picked up 30 ewe lambs from a nice little family farm. The kind you hope still exists out there—multi-generational, clean barns, kind eyes, the whole bit. Jason's dad was there that day—probably twenty years my senior—and before I pulled away, he offered, "You want to count them before you go?"
Now, I should have. I know I should have. But the wind was howling sideways, the snow stung your face like sandpaper, and the lambs were packed tight in the trailer. Trying to count them in that weather, through a fogged-up trailer gate while they bounced around like popcorn? Not a chance. So I nodded, said “Nah, I trust you,” and drove off into the snow.
Technically, the lambs should’ve had their ear tags already in—that’s the standard. But instead, Jason’s dad handed me a bag of 30 ear tags when I got there. I didn’t think much of it at the time—just figured I’d get to it when the lambs were settled in and the weather wasn’t trying to kill me.
Fast forward to early May. Sunshine, birds singing, and time to get those 30 tags from Jason onto the lambs.
For those who don’t know, Canadian sheep farms use standardized electronic ear tags—same size, same shape, same color—registered by farm number for traceability. I had the 30 tags in hand, lined up and ready.
So we packed the lambs into the tight pen in the barn, where they bounce off the walls like woolly pinballs. I climbed in with them—because there’s no other way to do it—and got to work. Wiggle, tag, repeat. It’s a bit like playing Twister with sheep.
When I was done… there was still one tag left in my hand.
I checked again. Anne double-checked. We went lamb by lamb in that tight pen—hands on every ear, twisting and dodging as they wriggled around. Every single one had a tag. No doubt about it. But somehow… I still had one left in my hand.
My heart sank.
Had I been shorted a lamb?
I stewed on it for a bit. Thought about how much I didn't want to have this conversation. But the numbers didn’t lie. So I sent Jason a text. Politely worded, but the kind of thing you hit "send" on with a pit in your stomach.
He replied right away: “We triple-counted them, Rod. There were 30.”
Now I was really stewing. I hadn’t lost a lamb—there hadn’t been any gaps in the feed alley, no mysterious disappearances, no predators. Just 29 tags in 30 lambs.
I texted back a slightly grumpy, “Whatever. I guess I should’ve counted them at your place.”
And then the phone rang.
It was Jason. He didn’t have to call, but he did.
We talked it through—no tension, just sorting it out. He explained their system, how careful they are, how confident he was that 30 had left their place. I believed him. He sounded genuine. Still, it didn’t make sense.
So Anne and I hauled the whole flock out of the pen, lined them up down the feed alley, and counted.
One… two… all the way to thirty.
What in the world?
That’s when the phone rang again.
“Rod,” Jason said, “I figured it out.”
Turns out, when their lambs are born, they tag the ram lambs, but not the ewe lambs. Except—somehow—one little ram lamb had been mis-sexed. Weeks later, someone realized he was actually a she. By then, the tag was in, and the ewe joined the group being sold to us.
Mystery solved.
We had 30 lambs the whole time. One of them just came pre-tagged.
I stood there holding that extra tag, feeling half-sheepish and half relieved. The mystery of the missing lamb wasn't missing at all. But my patience and my assumptions? Yeah… those went missing for a bit.
Thinking back, I did let myself get upset. I jumped to conclusions about a farmer I barely knew, when really I needed a little more faith in the good of humanity. A little more benefit of the doubt.
It was just another day on the farm—but also another reminder to take a breath, slow down, and let things play out. Because most of the time, they do. And getting worked up in the middle sure doesn’t help anything.
(Note: If you're reading this and you're an employee of the Canadian Food Inspection Agency, this was all just a fun story. Of course the tags were in the lambs’ ears before we transported them 😅)
Farmer Rod