Honcho

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.

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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.

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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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