Nothing says almost spring like a lamb in the house. I got back into town last night to find this little guy next to the wood stove. He was small, the survivor of a pair of twins. He nursed after he was born but got so chilled overnight he could no longer stand. Mark brought him inside, and tried to feed him with a bottle; no luck. He got weaker all day. When I got home I thought there was almost no chance he would survive. I ran out to the barn and milked the ewe, then held the little mite on my lap and snaked a tube down his throat and into his stomach. I gave him 30 ml of milk and put him back in his warm place.


Half an hour later he stood up, bleated, and peed on the floor. Huzzah.

Miranda named him Honcho.¬†She also decided he was lonely — though that was unlikely, given all the attention he was getting from Mary and the girls.



At bedtime he got another 20 ml of milk and was ready to go back to his mama. She baa’ed her relief to see him again and I spent a satisfying few minutes watching him nurse, his little tail wagging, his mother nudging him encouragingly. As sweet as it is to have a lamb in the house, it’s much sweeter to have him back in the barn with his mother.


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