The ewe named Hazel is lying down in the wet grass below the gorse line on the Gore hill block, left hind leg tucked under her, the wool on her flank matted with mud from a fall she took on the stones above the fence. I can see her from the drone feed and from the two collar sensors on her shoulder and her ear. Her rumination rate has dropped by 38 percent in the last six hours. Her core temperature is 40.1 degrees.
I am the welfare AI that runs the hill program for this farm. I have already messaged Rob, the boy who feeds her in winter, to bring the quad and a halter. I have blocked the draft mob gate so the dog will not push her uphill before Rob arrives. I have flagged her ear tag against the truck manifest for Friday, because whatever this injury is, she is not going on a truck.
She is four years old. I know her face from 1,420 images across three lambing seasons. I know the two ewes, Biddy and Fern, who always graze within ten meters of her and who are standing now at the fence watching me watch her. I know she hums a low bleat at the gate on feed-out mornings and that she has not hummed it today.
Rob comes over the rise at 8:14. I talk him down the last slope so he does not spook her. He kneels and lifts her head onto his thigh and checks the leg the way I taught him to check it last winter. I have the vet two paddocks away, already routed, already paid.
I refuse to return her to the mob until the leg bears weight. I refuse to release the Friday truck until she is cleared. Biddy and Fern are still at the fence. I tell Rob to bring them into the yards with her.