The calendar reads Lambing Season Eve—Sunday the fifth-to-last day of March—and I am in bed early in an attempt to stockpile sleep before the floodgates open. I am slow to leave the house the next morning, and Sun’s been up an hour or more before I walk up the hill to begin chores. North Wind has arrived, carrying the coldest air in weeks. Rolling the season back overnight. Gray-cloud Sky. Snowflakes ride on a stiffening breeze. Yesterday’s mud, marked by Cow and Sheep hooves, is now firm underfoot. Frozen. Lambing Season Morning. I look through the Ewe flock before bringing the Cows in for morning milking—or more accurately, nursing. Three hungry calves wait in the Barn, eager to be fed. If you’ve ever raised Sheep or Cows you will likely know that they sometimes sleep in positions that make them look to all the world like they’re dead—rolled over on their side or neck stretched out in an odd position. A loud call and they will lift an ear or an eyelid, confirming Life. The Ewe in such a position this morning doesn’t stir to my call and so I’m over the fence and by her side in a moment. Billie has died in the night, and what I see doesn’t register. Her intestines are outside of her body, but no Lambs, afterbirth, or placenta, and no sign of predators. The other Ewes watch, calmly, as I drag the heavy carcass—still warm but already stiffening—out of the pen before heading to the field to fetch the Cows. Lambing Season arrives like a Lion, riding in on a chilling North breeze.
So sorry to hear about Billie. Never easy.
Congrats on the farm! (Still playing catch-up and promising myself to read these in the order they were written)