This week I was called out to a farm to attend to a sick sheep. When the call came through, the farmer informed me that one of his ewes had given birth during the night and that she had suffered a vaginal prolapse.

A prolapse of the vagina is a condition that frequently occurs in cattle and sheep and one that I have attended to on numerous occasions, so it was not quite the situation of having to attend to a sheep that took me by surprise. Rather, it was the unexpectedly scenic location of the farm itself, coupled with the genuine fondness with which the farmer regarded his animals and superb farm-produce to which I was treated after we finished attending to the sick sheep.

The sheep were completely tranquil in the farmer’s presence, nudging themselves forward with curiosity.

The farm is perched on one of the hills that straddle the area between Mellieħa and Manikata. What is remarkable is that no other buildings or developments whatsoever are visible from the farm. With its back carefully ensconced into the land, the farm looks out onto open countryside. As far as the eye can see, hill after rolling hill softly fades into the distance – a landscape artist’s ideal exercise in atmospheric perspective. It is also a view that is now very hard to come by in Malta.  But I wasn’t there to admire the scenery.

A prolapsed vagina is uncomfortable for the affected animal and the risk of infection, both from accidental contamination as well as from fly-borne disease is very high. A prolapse happens when the vagina presents itself outside the sheep and does not recede naturally. It usually occurs in mature ewes during the latter stage of their pregnancy, more rarely in ewes that are overfed, and frequently in sheep that fail to dilate sufficiently and have given birth.

The prolapse needs to be corrected by a veterinary surgeon. Left untreated, the ewe will start to have difficulty urinating. The vagina as well as the interconnected cervix itself will harden. It may also rupture, causing the sheep’s intestines to entangle and herniate. In turn, this will bring about death.

But our sheep was spared an untimely death. The vagina walls were lubricated, gently replaced inside the sheep, and the vulva stitched up to prevent the natural tendency for the vagina to prolapse once again. Antibacterial medication was administered and the farmer advised to keep an eye on the sheep’s progress. In a few days, the stitches will be removed and the sheep will be back to normal. Having completed my work, I was invited to tour the farm and inspect the other residents.

The farm is truly a delight to behold. It’s not large, and most of the animals there live out on the farmland. Two donkeys, mother and foal, roam the paddock, while domestic goats and mountain goats leap about the stepped enclosure.  Fat, colourful free range cocks and chickens scurry from one end of their run to another, while myriad dogs and cats roam the farm freely.

I feel privileged to be able to visit these farms where the old traditions still thrive

But the main attraction, and the primary function of the farm, are the sheep that mill about their roomy pens. Segregated into their own pen were the ewes that had just given birth, including our patient. There was a separate pen for lambs that were only about one-and-a-half months old, and another similar one for kids with a few wise cockerels to keep an eye on them. And then there was the pen where the bulk of the herd was kept. This was the milking herd: the pride and joy of the farmer and the main reason for this daily toil.

The day, in fact, was a Sunday and he was still working just as he does every single day of the week. I have great admiration for farmers – both agricultural as well as husbandry. They live for their farm and they never stop working. Weekends and public holidays simply don’t exist. But most would not have it any other way. It’s in their blood. And with this particular sheep farmer, it’s his life.  With quiet pride he exhibited his lactating herd of sheep. As he moved about them and discussed their various characters and quirks, I could see that the sheep were completely tranquil in his presence.  They didn’t shy or bolt away.  Rather, they nudged themselves forward with curiosity and quietly listened to us talking until they lost interest and moved on.

I was given a tour of the sheep pen. Two doorways flanked the pen, one large one the sheep used when taken outside to graze and another for the farmer’s use. At the rear of the pen stood a doorway from which a short steep ramp led up to a raised ledge. Every morning, he said, he would open the door and the sheep, one by one, following their innate order of seniority, would voluntarily make their way up to the ledge to be milked. But here was the thing. This farmer still milks his herd by hand.  And the produce from the milk that he extracts from the sheep goes to make ġbejniet. The farmer was only too willing to offer some of his ġbejna for me to sample. And I was very willing to try them out.

As we sat in the cool shade of the farmyard, the farmer brought to table both fresh ġbejniet and peppered. Not wanting to compromise the taste of the fresh with the sharp taste of the peppered, I started with the ġbejniet he and his wife had prepared just the day before.

These ġbejniet were made in the old tradition of using only unpasteurised sheep’s milk, rennet and a little salt. As ġbejniet go, they were of medium size, made in the way his family had made them since time immemorial. Most importantly, his herd is reared in the traditional method of husbandry while still respecting the norms of modern sanitary laws. Indeed, the delicate taste of unpasteurised curdled sheep’s milk still sitting in their whey – the liquid that drains off as a by-product of the milk – was sublime.

Knowing full well that this was a registered farm with the necessary accreditation, I could enjoy without qualms the delicate flavour of the ġbejniet. Interestingly, I learnt that a genuine cured ġbejna will secrete natural oils of its own as it ages.

I feel privileged to be able to visit these farms where the old traditions still thrive. It was heart-warming to see the farmer and his wife, both very hard-working and still intent on maintaining the quality of their produce and caring for their herds while, by their side, their young granddaughter with tablet in hand exhibited the same passion for the farm and its animals as her grandparents.

thisweekwiththevet@gmail.com

Dr Martin Debattista is a veterinary surgeon.