Okay, it's settled. I am staying up here on the farm this week to assist the ewes in what promises to be a fertile lambing session. I once watched my cat give birth; total extent of my knowledge. I was pretty much knocked out when Dan came and have no recollection of the event. Besides that was almost 42 years ago.
So we decide to help me prepare. How does any overeducated townie approach a challenge? We read. Thanks to Amazon, I came from the States laden with farm books. So we begin our research. It all sounds overwhelming to me but Dan flies around gathering rubber gloves, jelly, something to give the ewe to restore her to vigor; Yael contributes an old towel, and I read. After all, I'm the one who is supposed to actually wear the gloves, pull the lamb out, and rub it down. I ask a simple question. "How will I even get close to the ewe given that the whole herd (Including a disgruntled large Ram) hates the very sight of me after our shifting of them yesterday?" Somehow my attentive children manage not to hear that question. The question trails after them as they hop in the station wagon and drive off down to Auckland.
I nervously watch the herd all day as I weed. And as I paint my rooms since one of my windows looks over and down at the appropriate paddock. We moved them to this nearest paddock because it provides shelter. Which the books say ewes need. Unfortunately a lot of hay is stored there too. This space was originally two horse stalls attached to the back of the new barn. So Dan is worried about the sheep coming into the stalls; not to give birth but to eat. And there goes the winter feed. While Dan and Yael were assembling emergency obstetrical supplies, I was sent down to muck out the stables. Which I did. The dung had been left to dry out in the expectation that it would be easier to shovel. Great idea; wrong premise. Dung does not dry out in a wet climate. Still, I did my bit and mucked out.
I fret all night. These are downright costly livestock. Any time you hear the word 'organic' add two zeroes. And these were premium organic sheep. Premium organic wool; premium organic lamb chops. So Dan and Yael have repeatedly warned me not to name the stock; not to get emotionally attached. Who? Me! Now remember this is from my lovely daughter-in-law who croons to sheep as if they were her own children. So I don't get involved. Not hard to do since the cows are too big to cuddle and the sheep bolt at the sound of my bright purple wellies crunching down the driveway.
That all ended yesterday morning when I tramped down through the mist to count the sheep. All were accounted for. The brown one was huddled by the fence batting the post with her head. Even I (with the help of the books) could tell she would move into the world of motherhood pretty darn soon. And then one of the ewes moved away from me but slowly. And 4 other ewes surrounded her and all stared at me with grave suspicion. All were white ewes but I kept seeing little flashes of black around their legs. One very clever ewe, not having read the right books, had decided to give birth without me. And to the most adorable little black lamb with a white blaze on its forehead. I call it Starlight but only here on my blog. Back at the farmhouse I will call it Lamb1.
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