RIP Little Tank

I had finished my evening chores and was headed inside. I caught sight of my tiny blind cat, Freddie, in the little igloo on top of some wool and went back to get him some cat food. Denzel, Lilly's wether from two years ago, saw me walking through the barn with a scoop and decided to jump the fence and see if he could rough some food off me, or the cats. I have a table blocking the opening of the igloo just for this reason. I leaned back the broken table top to sprinkle some food in Freddie's dish and here comes Denzel. I was tired and not in the mood for this nonsense and chased Denzel away with a broom. I didn't even see little Tank who had followed me in the dark, looking for yet another bottle. Denzel ran over him in his frenzy to get away from the broom. Tank rolled over and I knew something was wrong. I picked him up and brought him inside and sat a while with him, but he was too quiet. It was late so I put a fuzzy blanket in a basket and put it next to the sofa where I've been sleeping lately. I woke up several times during the night to find Tank stretched out on the floor. I put him back in the basket each time, thinking it would keep him warm. In the morning he was back on the floor, stretched out, stiff. I loved that little lamb. It's awful to lose a lamb, especially when you've spent hours bottle feeding him, making eye contact, watching the little mouth sucking and the tail wagging. Whenever there are dramatic circumstance to a birth, like Tank's, it makes the bonding stronger and the pain of the loss keener. I had been so frantic to find him and so happy when I pulled him out from behind the old water tank, a frozen length of lamb, and so relieved when he survived. I had made up my mind to keep him as a pet, as he was so much smaller than the others and so adorable. Just when you think you are out of the woods and everything is going to be alright, something happens to rip your guts out. That's the life of a shepherd.