I TWEETED once that a particular sheep was so badly behaved that she was going to shoot directly off the end of the rainbow bridge and into my freezer.
Being blessed with an extremely dark sense of humour, I found it funny. Twitter, less so. In the event, she did indeed end up vacuum packed and neatly stacked in the freezer and was absolutely delicious. But I dread to think what might happen if I were to announce that on TikTok or Instagram now, following our newfound Wonky fame.
There has been such an outpouring of love for that lamb that I have been quite taken aback. I announced early on that she would be kept – the alternative might have had me fearing for my own life – but I have stayed away from explaining what will most likely happen to her brother.
He is affectionately nicknamed “The Beast” and, unlike his sister, he is a non-breeding male. It’s not because it bothers me – but because I’m not sure I have the energy for the comments.
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If you have not heard about Wonky, I’m envious. She is a lamb who was born with an impressively twisted neck. I looked after her, put her on social media and documented the story as she thrived.
Millions of views and a borderline cynical, but business-boosting, merchandising exercise later, I am almost on my knees.
The lamb is out in the field with her mum and brother, blissfully unaware of her fame. The bright orange dot on her bum marks her out so that her legions of fans can spot her in the field without tramping up and down my drive and interrupting my work day with their requests to “meet the lamb”.
I must confess that I have been a little short with people at times.
Don’t get me wrong, the unexpected fame of Wonky the lamb has brought huge benefits, but it has also brought a very steep learning curve.
I’ve learned that some people think nothing of turning up at your door, assuming that you will drop everything to show them a sheep.
I’ve also learned that people will ask if they can buy the lamb. Not the meat, not a share in the flock, not a jumper made from her wool. The lamb. To keep in their garden. In Surrey. With their dog.
I’ve learned that no matter how many times you explain she’s not a pet, someone will still reply, “but look at her wee face!” – as though facial expression is now the basis for agricultural policy.
I’ve learned that fame doesn’t pay the feed bill, unless you sell enough mugs with her face on them to cover a winter’s hay – which, weirdly, we might. And I’ve learned that people are potty for cute animals.
But the problem with a viral animal on a working croft is that reality is always just around the corner. My current preoccupation is how much we let people see around that corner.
A decent chunk of our following understands and appreciates the reality of farming, but many of them have absolutely no concept about it, and a sizable group are actively opposed to the concept. For weeks now, they have been waging war in the comments about the evils of keeping animals as anything other than pampered pets.
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I hate that approach to animals. Rainbow bridges, pawprints on your heart, fur babies, pet parents, paw parents, “my fluffy son” – it all brings me out in instant hives.
Someone stopped me in the Co-op last week to ask if I was “Wonky’s mum”, and it took everything I had not to give them a three-point lecture in the veg aisle.
The closest I have got to that is describing myself as “Wonky’s human” for the purposes of a video. Even that made my eye twitch.
The real twitching, though, comes from my growing realisation that people are so disconnected from the realities of where their food comes from that it’s less funny and more frightening.
The prevailing attitude in many of the comments – from what I can only assume are vegetarians and vegans (I know … not all vegans, not all vegetarians etc …) – suggests that they look at animals as having the same rights as people. And that’s where I just cannot compute. When did this happen?
Well, it didn’t happen overnight. The shift in public attitudes towards animals has been a slow burn, fuelled by a mix of empathy, legislation, and a dash of anthropomorphism.
The UK’s journey towards animal welfare began in earnest in the 19th century. In 1822, Richard Martin, affectionately known as “Humanity Dick,” introduced the Cruel Treatment of Cattle Act, marking the first piece of animal welfare legislation. Two years later, in 1824, he co-founded the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which later became the RSPCA.
These early efforts were primarily about preventing overt cruelty. Fast-forward to the 21st century, and the concept of animal welfare has evolved significantly.
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The Animal Health and Welfare (Scotland) Act 2006 introduced a “duty of care”, requiring individuals responsible for animals to ensure their welfare needs are met. This includes providing a suitable environment, proper diet, the ability to exhibit normal behaviour, housing with or apart from other animals as appropriate, and protection from pain, suffering, injury, and disease.
It rightly reinforces the importance of proactive care – not just reacting to cruelty, but working to prevent it.
While welfare focuses on the wellbeing of animals under human care, the animal rights movement pushes further, advocating for animals to have rights similar to humans.
This perspective gained traction in the 1970s, notably with the publication of Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation in 1975. Singer introduced the concept of “speciesism”, arguing against the arbitrary distinction humans make between their own species and others.
This philosophical shift influenced public opinion, leading to increased scrutiny of practices like factory farming and animal testing.
Now, in the algorithm-fuelled reason-death-spiral of the 2020s, there is a clear trend towards thinking that animals have rights on a par with people. Human emotions are ascribed to animals, and social media exacerbates it – with viral animal stories leading to calls for “rescue” or lifelong sanctuary, regardless of practicality or the animal’s welfare.
And here I am, caught somewhere between PR, practicality, and principle, with a viral lamb, a growing audience, and a conundrum I am actively avoiding. Because round the corner lies a question I don’t want to answer: What do we do with Wonky’s brother?
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As I said, The Beast is a non-breeding male. The rules dictate that he should be sold. But I have nicknamed him. He is part of the story, part of the saga. And now I am not just afraid of the social media reaction – I am genuinely torn.
And people are asking … It’s an interesting conundrum. Do we explain that, given his impressive size, he will make an acceptable amount in the ring, and will no doubt be served up by Christmas? Or do we ignore the issue entirely? Or, is there a third way, where I go against all my principles and keep him?
He would be of little earthly use. He will no doubt drive me utterly crackers for years and eat his body weight in feeding – but … and this is the cynical side coming out … he would make an excellent marketing tool.
I could write a children’s book about the adventures of Wonky and Beast, complete with human emotions and cartoon eyes. There’d be mugs, calendars, a podcast. I can see it already.
I’m slightly concerned about where my principles are in this maelstrom, but it won’t stop me defrosting a homegrown gigot for Sunday dinner.
And frankly, if those who advocate for animal rights spent as much time fighting for a duty of care towards people as they do trying to stop me eating my sheep, the world would be a much better place. And when I make a decision, I’ll let you know!
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