Morning Show:
At 5 AM, a granny ewe, fiercely positive that a lamb freshly delivered by another ewe was her own, gave me a run for my money. Thankfully, the birth mom hung with me as I ran interference with the determined foster mom and packed the newborn to a warm, strawed jug, where a twin sibling soon joined the first-born.  

Three hours later, after spreading hay and releasing ewes from the barn to eat outside, I was busily mucking out the night pen when an old ewe appeared at the door, marched to an interior gate, and waited patiently for me to open it so she could move to a lambing jug.  She lay down before going into the jug--giving me time to get straw behind her--and delivered a lamb in the lane. Shame on me for harboring disparaging thoughts about how she could have licked wet lamb #1 a bit more thoroughly. Certainly she had ample reason to be distracted. When I returned to the barn thirty minutes later, after a quick breakfast break, she had delivered lambs 2 and 3 and had all three spiffy clean and sucking. 

Late Day Wrap-Up:
​I look forward to the night routine and linger alongside the night pen longer than is necessary in order to listen, observe, and prolong my sense of peace and purpose. No matter the hour, nearly all ewes are cudding, and the soft, moist sound of it indicates that all is well. The ewes trying to sleep groan with each exhalation in a rhythmic group-moan that suggests multiples within and restricted lung space. They often get up to change positions, stretch, and move about. When ready to lay down, the older matrons assert well-earned senior authority, pawing at younger reclining ewes and forcing them to get up and yield their warm nests.  Young novices learn how to avoid conflict--keeping their heads down, avoiding eye contact, and deferring whenever a veteran looks askance at them: good advice for all adolescents eager to achieve adult status. 

Bottom line: lambing barn news sustains and reassures me. Would that FOX and MSNBC could be equally uplifting.

   

Media may credit Punxsutawney Phil's shadow for the giddy ascents and eye-popping descents of our roller coaster weather, but my experience confirms that two events reliably predict wintry blasts better than Phil or NOAH. During my teaching career, junior prom weekend--featuring gossamer gowns, impossibly high heels, spectacularly sculpted hairdos, impeccable tuxedos, and expensive dinners in town--guaranteed blowing snow, zero visibility, and slick or slushy roads and sidewalks. Likewise, sheep shearing invites horizontal snow and sub-zero temperatures. Our sheep got sheared on Super Bowl Sunday. That night the mercury dropped to nearly zero and seven inches of snow fell. The newly bald ewes, packed like proverbial sardines into the barn, were reasonably comfortable during the night. Wednesday brought moderating temperature and partial melting. Today, our snow is like shrapnel, barreling in on arctic wind. On Friday night we expect to bottom out at minus 16. 

The week had wrinkles beyond weather. We were horrified when our shearer found a tick on the first ewe sheared. The source of that unwelcome freeloader became clear on the second ewe in line--one of eight outside sheep that had joined our ewes in late October to be bred by our buck. Each sweep of the shearing blades exposed fresh nests of those demon bloodsuckers, dozens of them, maybe hundreds, undoubtedly surprised to be so suddenly revealed in what had been deep cozy hiding places within the fleece. Each one of the seven flock mates was similarly parasite-loaded. All eight ewes had been purchased from a neighbor whose flock is well-known by our shearer to have a serious tick problem. ARGH! You can imagine my enthusiasm for packing those fleeces into wool bags. Our shearer said nothing, but I would guess that he was disgusted. 

The story could be nastier. Our ewes and the eight newcomers had been widely dispersed on pasture with the exception of two nights and one day spent crowded inside the barn just prior to shearing. Thus, not all of our ewes were infested and of those scattered ewes who were hosting ticks, the number of parasites is low. Supposedly shearing removes many of the adults and most of their glued-onto-wool eggs. Those bits of good news did not alter our response. After the eight outside ewes went home and winter paused for a day, we treated all of our ewes and bucks with insecticide. Although ticks spread through sheep-to-sheep contact, we cleaned out every bit of potentially contaminated bedding from the barn. We will re-treat all the sheep in two weeks in hopes of exterminating any new adults that hatch from eggs during the interim. That timeline puts a few of our ewes awfully close to lambing, but we will make every effort to be gentle, move them slowly, and finish the job with as little stress as possible. May that be the final chapter in this tastelessly titillating tale of treacherous, traitorous, traumatizing ticks. 

This morning began with a near disaster, a wrinkle averted. When I entered the barn to unlock the door and let ewes out, a brockle-faced ewe was stretched out groaning, not quite on her back but tipped over far enough that she could not roll onto her brisket. A boost and then support for her hindquarters when she first stood were all that she needed, but my help came none too soon, for she was wobbly and quite bloated.    

On the bright side:
- Each layer of fresh snow allows us to feed repeatedly atop previous feedings in sheltered areas without worrying about contamination.
- Outdoor and indoor Christmas lights continue to bring joy and feel appropriate. Likewise, Pandora's Classical Christmas station, playing now as I compose, continues to fit perfectly.  
- The vat of turkey/wild rice soup that I made last Saturday--featuring big chunks of carrots, onions, mushrooms, and celery--will last through the upcoming weekend.
- My daily trek to and from the mailbox on cross country skis is fun and keeps me warm. 
- All mats are cut and assembled and frames are ordered for my new paintings destined for Western Art Week in mid March.
- Tomato and pepper seeds have arrived.
- The Christmas cactus that began blooming in mid-November continues to radiate hot orange splendor.
- A tall stack of must-read books awaits, should spare time hang heavily.