Valentine is doing nicely, still in his little jug (sheep lingo for the pen where a lamb spends his first few days with his mother). He does little happy dances and leaps between naps and nursing. I'll keep them in this pen for a while longer, as mom loves eating her grain treats without competing with the other sheep in the maternity area. No other sheep get grain in the barn. This maternal group is a privileged few. My four Christmas-time lambs are doing great and growing big and fat. I need to ear tag them, something I hate to do as they can tear off leaving the ear a bloody mess. If I don't I might not be able to tell who they are a year from now. I had a few lovely white sheep last year, along with some very nice black sheep. I've given up on names except for a few. I can't remember them anyway, and it adds a whole new dimension of sadness when I have to let them go. There was a time when everyone had names, and I had so many hopes and dreams about my farm, but that seems so long ago and a very big reality bite away. I truly believe it is better to have farmed and lost than to never have farmed at all. At least I'm not lying on the sofa, watching a big screen TV and counting out my anti-depressants and the other meds I need to put one foot in front of the other.
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