Killdeers are calling, snow geese are heading north, and seedlings in our sun room have germinated. Early Girl tomatoes emerged today, Sweet Baby Girls, our favorite cherry tomatoes, should pop through tomorrow, and sweet peppers will not be far behind. We look forward to hearing a meadowlark's song, a fail-safe clue that spring truly has arrived.

​That said, I have a hard time letting go of Christmas. We took our tree down only two weeks ago, we continue to enjoy the outdoor lights strung on the junipers outside the kitchen and sun room windows, and I am enjoying a Philip Aaberg CD of Christmas music as I compose this post.

Looking in the rear view mirror: my bit part in the high drama of Great Falls' Western Art Week was totally satisfying. The Montana Watercolor Society's display was fabulous; I was proud to be a part of it and treasured the opportunity for fellowship with participating members. I had sent invitations to Senators Tester and Daines and several state legislators. Not surprisingly, they did not show up; more importantly, friends, neighbors, and a bus load of my former Fairfield art students did, including some seniors with graduation announcements for me. Thank you, all. And, yes, I sold some paintings--framed pieces, shrink wrapped pieces, and some note cards. Already, I have plans for next year roaming through my mind. Stay tuned.           

Weed's blood work today showed that she remains slightly anemic, but much improved. She is right where the vet hoped she would be halfway into her treatment with prednisone. Jim and I are delighted with that news. 

My car is loaded with paintings for tomorrow's evening opening of Western Art Week. I hope to see some familiar faces at the MT Watercolor Society display at the La Quinta Inn on 600 River Drive South, Great Falls. It should be noted that watercolor paints are an awesome medium, watercolor paintings are at least as permanent as oils and acrylics, and watercolor artists like me are as western as can be. In fact, I completed six small original paintings on note cards in between checks on calving cows and lambing ewes.  I have no idea whether there is a market for such note cards since twittering tweeters seem to be in control, but I surely enjoyed creating them and will use them for special people and special occasions if no one buys them. It's 11:00 PM and time to bottle feed the bum lambs and check the drop pen for imminent births. I am including images of a couple of my recently-painted note cards. If they appear to be out of focus, it is because I don't know how to crop photos of small pieces without having them appear to be magnified. Just as I taught my former Biology students regarding microscopy, an increase in magnification produces a decrease in resolution. I am not adequately tech savvy to solve this issue.        

I have been derelict in posting, but our daunting routine makes me doubt my capacity for coherence. Despite our schedule, it's past time for the following update.

Our house lamb, born outside on a frigid morn, a month before our lambs were really due, courtesy of a neighbor's fence-creeping buck, has truncated ears. Today he received his booster shot of CD & T, had his tail docked, and was castrated. He rebounded quickly from such ignominious treatment, and now, a short time later, continues to live the illusion that he is quite the studly guy.

Our premature lamb, initially named Gollum for her wrinkled skin and spider-like creeping has metamorphosed.  Though she remains spindly, she has grown into her skin and goes by a new name, Smeagel. She now runs with gazelles, spins like a  whirligig, and leaps tall buildings in a single bound. Bottom line: she's a survivor.

Weed, now on a half dose of prednisone daily for her immune-mediated hemolytic anemia, seems much better. Her appetite is good, her bulk has ballooned (either that or her head has shrunk), and her mid-treatment appointment with the vet is set for day after tomorrow. She maintains her routines enthusiastically, bringing ewes into the barn each evening, dashing ahead of me to check our gopher traps, guarding the open gate while we are cleaning in the barn, and climbing what I call the Afterbirth Tree, into which I pitch, you guessed it, afterbirths, in an effort to keep Weed from eating them. I rationalize that placental tissue is probably the best possible diet to rebuild red blood cells, certainly much better than corn/soy-based commercial dog kibble.

The two year old ewe, who last year as a lamb delivered twins and raised them splendidly, continues in my bad graces. This year she again delivered twins. However, Lamb #2 arrived four hours after lamb #1, and the ewe decided that the second born was an unwanted bastard lamb. She alternates between restrictions--a grafting gate and halter and tie in our effort to convince her that two lambs are better than one. Black headed sheep are not noted for compliance; she may win this one, but I haven't yet conceded.

Lastly, in between the above, I am trying to create a few more original watercolor paintings on notecards to have for sale at the MT Watercolor Society display during Great Fall's upcoming Western Art Week. My paintings may not fit preconceptions of western, but life on Prairie Island is, indeed, the real deal.  

    

       

With her baggy skin, wrinkles, and spidery way of moving, our lamb, Gollum, is well named. Her mother is a beautiful yearling, acquired with a winning raffle ticket at the 2016 National Columbia Sheep Show and Sale. For now, however, we're not worried about beauty, for we suspect that Gollum needed several more days of gestation. She spent her first hours in front of our wood stove, sustained by two tube feedings of colostrum from the freezer. Later, while we were outside doing afternoon chores, she propelled herself out of her cozy swaddling and swam across the kitchen floor where we found her sprawled out, scrawny legs stretched full length fore and aft. Mid-evening, we returned her to the barn for a brief reunion with her mother who welcomed her with all the right maternal sounds and attention. I milked the ewe and we returned Gollum to the house, this time to a cozy, but restrictive, box in front of the wood stove. From her new digs, she heard President Trump address Congress and provided us with welcome diversion from the over-long speech. Before we returned her to the barn for the night, she sucked down a generous feed of her mother's milk from a bottle. Now, two days later, she is able to get up and nurse on her own. Despite her fragile condition, she seems determined to survive; despite her homely gnome looks, her mother loves her.