A couple weeks ago, a neighbour mentioned that they’d had a lamb that could not produce thiamin. “Ah yes. Iodine deficiency,” I said.

This was not a common problem for us, but there was one year when it was epidemic, and we had a few other instances. Easy to treat. Pour iodine on the skin while providing supportive care. And we always had iodine because the spray was used to disinfect the umbilical cord of every lamb.

Once, we had a ewe with this problem. Temporary weakness and blindness were the symptoms. I kept her inside and treated her for several days.

Once she was better, I let her out. Mistake. A couple days later, I went out to lock the flock into the barn in the evening. It was drizzling so they were all inside. Except, I noticed one lone ewe out in the second pasture. The sick one. She’d gone blind again. She had followed the flock out, but missed the notice that it was time to go in. She did not know which way was home.

One thing about the sheep on our farm: they ran away from our voices. So, I went out into the drizzling rain and walked quietly until I got around her. Then, I yelled, “Go home.” She raised her head. I got a bit closer and yelled again.

This time, she took off, headed toward the barn, yes, but straight at the fence row. She tripped over the rocks. Fell. I got close, called again, and she stumbled to her feet, made it over the rocks and fell again.

Remember weakness is also a symptom of this condition. I got close enough to lift her to her feet. It is important to note that sheep get up with their back legs first. So, I had to get right up to her back end, dig my fingers around her hip bones, moved my knees against her, and lifted. She pulled her front feet under her and took off. Halfway across the field, she fell again. I lifted her again. She made it almost to the barn but in her way was the manure pile. She fell right in the wet muck.

Do you remember it was raining? My coat was damp, and my jeans soaked. When I got up to her, her wool was wet and cold. And mucky.

With the same procedure, I got her to her feet again. Three steps and she fell. She’d reached the limit of her strength. This time, as I lifted her, I kept my knees against her hips, supporting her weight (at least seventy-five kilos) and pushed her forward.

She fell again. By this time, my fingers were cold as well as filthy. But, I lifted her again. And again, I kept my knees against her soaked, muddy, back end. We made it ten steps. I think I swore. But my voice stimulated the sheep in the barn to baa. She perked up her ears. When they called again, she scrambled to her feet and ran forward, made the turn into the paddock, hurried inside.

Exhausted, I walked to the house more slowly. Jeans filthy and wet. Hands trembling with cold and tiredness. I stank of manure. And you can be sure, she never went outside again.

There is a parable Jesus told about a good shepherd who realized that one sheep was missing. The shepherd left the ninety-nine and went to find the lost. It is a favourite topic for stained glass windows, and other art.

The shepherd is always pictured in pristine, if humble, clothes, with a clean, white lamb draped across his shoulders. Based on my experience, rescuing the lost sheep is a little more challenging and messy than the pictures show.

The parable is supposed to encourage the listener to seek lost people. But seeking the lost is always hard work.

Rescuing the lost – lost to drug addiction or gambling or criminal activity or paranoid psychosis – is going to be messy. By definition, it is not a stroll through an immaculate English garden. I have known this for a long time.

But my day pushing the lost sheep home reminded me to tell the story of seeking the lost differently.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation.

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