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.
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.
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