A new premature lamb was born after I thought lambing was finished. He’s about 4 lbs. and *very* tiny. He’s vocal, though, and EVERYBODY knows when he’s lost, hungry, etc. which happens frequently. So far, his mommy seems to be taking very good care of him when she remembers that she actually HAS a lamb. *sigh* Dang teen moms.

I have another lamb that is just barely alive. He’s a walking skeleton. I’ve force fed a bottle; he spits out the milk. I’ve given him (goat and ewe) milk in a saucer; he turns up his nose. I’ve put sheep milk replacer powder in his creep feed. He eats so slowly that he’s knocked out of the way by the bigger, stronger lambs unless I’m standing over the top of him whacking them away with a bucket. His mom pushes him up to her udder; he stands there and doesn’t drink. I don’t see how he’s still alive. Him dying would make my evenings a lot easier!

I outdid myself tonight. I picked up a board in the dark that the sheep had knocked out of their feeder. I was afraid that there would be nails protruding from it, and didn’t want anybody (sheep or human!) stepping on it. I turned around to pick up my bucket, keeping a firm grip on the board, and whacked the other side of it into a fencepost. Dang. A nail WAS driven into somebody, but, thank goodness, not the lambs. My thumb and palm have deep puncture wounds, and it looks like there are broken wood fragments in there, too. (Yeah, I whacked that post HARD.) What’d I do? Scream? Cry? Curse? Nah. Finished feeding, of course. I didn’t toss out the hay; that will have to wait until morning.

I’d dripped blood all over the handle of the bucket, switched carrying hands, and came inside with not one but TWO bloody palms! A little antibacterial soap, some Neosporin, and several Band-Aids, and I was ready to cook dinner.

There won’t be any dishwashing tonight. Sniff sniff.


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