It's usually your nice, big fast-growing animals that tend to like to die
On a three-generation sheep and beef farm in Piopio, a veterinarian who is also a farmer has arrived at a conviction that bridges clinical science and lived experience: the animals most likely to die suddenly are often the healthiest ones, thriving on rich pasture, felled by clostridial toxins before anyone can intervene. Stacey Turner's advocacy for routine vaccination is not merely a medical recommendation but a quiet argument about the relationship between care, risk, and the economics of life on the land. What can be prevented, she insists, should be — and the cost of not doing so is written in the animals that never reach market.
- Fast-growing, well-fed lambs and calves — the very animals representing the greatest investment — are the most vulnerable to sudden, untreatable clostridial death.
- The diseases strike without warning, leaving farmers no window to respond, which makes prevention the only meaningful intervention available.
- A single animal lost to pulpy kidney or tetanus costs five to six hundred dollars, dwarfing the price of a vaccine pack and making inaction a quiet financial drain.
- Turner's protocol — timed vaccinations pre-lambing and pre-calving, with boosters at docking and disbudding — channels maternal antibodies directly into newborns through milk, multiplying protection across the flock.
- Combining clostridial vaccines with trace elements like selenium and B12 in a single injection reduces labor, cuts animal stress, and addresses farm-specific deficiencies in one efficient pass.
- Across the region, the gap between farms that vaccinate routinely and those that treat it as optional is measurable in survival rates, growth performance, and bottom-line profitability.
Stacey Turner practices veterinary medicine in Piopio and farms alongside her husband Stephan on a 290-hectare property his family has worked for three generations — a thousand breeding ewes, eighty breeding cows, and a full cycle of animals grown for market. That dual vantage point, clinical and practical, has made her unusually direct about what she considers non-negotiable: clostridial vaccination.
The diseases in question — tetanus, pulpy kidney, black leg, botulism — are toxins present on pasture, and they kill fast. There is no warning, no time to treat. The cruelest irony, Turner notes, is that it tends to be the biggest, fastest-growing animals that succumb — the ones thriving on lush, high-protein feed, the ones you've invested in most. Highly productive farms, pushing hard for growth, face the greatest risk.
On the Turner property, vaccination follows the calendar. Ewes receive Ultravac two to four weeks before lambing; cows before calving. Lambs are vaccinated at docking and again at weaning; calves at disbudding with a follow-up booster. The timing is deliberate — vaccinating close to birth concentrates antibodies in the mother's colostrum and milk, passing protection directly to newborns at their most vulnerable.
The economics, Turner says, make hesitation hard to justify. Losing a single ewe to clostridial disease costs five to six hundred dollars. A vaccine pack costs a fraction of that. Before routine vaccination became standard, she watched twins and triplets born to stressed ewes fall to the disease at exactly the moment they should have been thriving.
What she values in the Ultravac product is its flexibility. Selenium or B12 can be combined with the clostridial vaccine in a single injection, addressing trace element deficiencies specific to each farm while reducing the labor and stress of multiple handling events. A farm with selenium deficiency can protect against white muscle disease in the same pass. Another might add B12 to lift growth rates.
Turner works across the region with sheep and beef farmers, and she sees the difference plainly: farms where vaccination is routine produce more animals that survive to market. The gap is visible in the paddock and measurable in the accounts.
Stacey Turner runs a mixed animal veterinary practice in Piopio, but she's also a farmer—which gives her a particular clarity about what works and what doesn't. She and her husband Stephan operate a 290-hectare sheep and beef property, one that Stephan's family has worked for three generations. They run a thousand breeding ewes and about eighty breeding cows, along with autumn-born calves and bulls they fatten for market. It's the kind of diverse operation where you see the full spectrum of what can go wrong, and what can be prevented.
One thing Turner has become adamant about is clostridial vaccination. The diseases it prevents—tetanus, pulpy kidney, black leg, botulism—are toxins present on pasture that animals ingest, usually with catastrophic speed. "It's usually your nice, big fast-growing animals that tend to like to die," she says. The irony is sharp: the animals you've invested in, the ones thriving on rich feed, are often the ones most vulnerable. And the death, when it comes, is sudden. There's no warning, no time to intervene.
On the Turner farm, vaccination is woven into the rhythm of the year. Ewes get Ultravac two to four weeks before lambing; cows receive it before calving. Lambs are vaccinated at docking and again at weaning. Calves get their first dose at disbudding, then a booster. The timing matters. When you vaccinate close to birth, the antibodies concentrate in the mother's milk, passing protection directly to the newborn. It's a simple biological fact that transforms survival rates.
The economics are straightforward enough that Turner finds it baffling when farmers skip the vaccine. A single ewe lost to clostridial disease costs five to six hundred dollars—far more than a pack of vaccine. Before routine vaccination became standard, she saw twins and triplets born to ewes stressed by lambing complications, and that's precisely when clostridial disease took hold. Now, with vaccination, those losses are preventable. "For me, it's a no brainer for lamb and calf survival," she says. It's insurance, yes, but insurance with a return on investment so clear that not taking it seems like leaving money on the table.
The risk isn't evenly distributed across all farms. Lush pastures and high-protein feed create conditions where clostridial disease flourishes in young stock. Highly productive operations—the ones pushing growth rates hardest—face the greatest incidence. Bulls that fight and wound each other are at higher risk. The disease seems to track with intensity: the faster you're trying to grow animals, the more vigilant you need to be.
What Turner values about the Ultravac product is flexibility. She can combine the clostridial vaccine with trace elements like selenium or B12, tailoring the approach to each farm's specific needs. A farm with selenium deficiency might add that to the pre-lamb vaccination to prevent white muscle disease in lambs. Another might benefit from B12, which correlates closely with growth rates. The ability to give multiple treatments in a single injection means less labor, less stress on the animals, and a cleaner workflow when lambs are already in the yards for docking or calves for disbudding.
Turner came to Piopio from Australia to practice veterinary medicine and met Stephan along the way. Now she works full-time with sheep and beef farmers across the region, and her perspective straddles both worlds—the clinical understanding of disease and the practical reality of farm economics. She sees farms where clostridial vaccination is routine and farms where it's still an afterthought. The difference in outcomes is visible. The difference in profitability is measurable. And the difference in the animals that survive to market is the whole point.
Citas Notables
For me, it's a no brainer for lamb and calf survival. Clostridial diseases are very common and are an unnecessary loss when there's a very successful and affordable vaccine out there.— Stacey Turner, veterinarian and farmer
You only have to lose one ewe and that's $500 and $600, which is far greater than the cost of a pack of vaccine.— Stacey Turner
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does clostridial disease seem to target the best animals on a farm?
There's a correlation between growth rate and risk. The animals eating the richest feed, growing fastest, are the ones most likely to die suddenly. It's as if the disease preys on intensity.
And the vaccine prevents this entirely?
Not entirely—nothing is absolute. But it's remarkably effective. The key is timing. Vaccinate the mother before birth, and her milk carries antibodies to the newborn. That's the window where protection matters most.
So a farmer who loses one ewe is actually losing more than just the animal.
Exactly. You lose the ewe, you lose the lambs she would have carried or nursed. A single loss cascades. The vaccine costs a fraction of what one animal is worth.
What about farms that are already struggling—can they afford to vaccinate?
That's the paradox. The farms that can least afford losses are often the ones running the tightest margins. But the vaccine is affordable. It's the farms that don't see the connection between prevention and profit that skip it.
Does every farm need the same vaccination protocol?
No. A farm with selenium deficiency needs different support than one with lush pastures. That's where a vet who understands the individual farm's system becomes valuable. One size doesn't fit all.
What happens if a farmer decides not to vaccinate?
They're betting against odds that have already been calculated. They'll likely lose animals they didn't need to lose. It's not a question of if, but when.