Does Anyone Follow Plan A?

 

Did you say alfalfa? The flock in February.

I'm a list maker.

I'm a planner.

I don't know why I have sheep.

On this week's to-do list: separate pregnant and non-pregnant ewes. Move the non-pregnant group to the big barn.

For much of the fall and winter, the ewes have lived as one big flock. They grazed on the pasture and ate first-cutting hay. A few participated in the daily dog training ritual.

Now that the ewes are in their third trimester, they get a break from dog training. More importantly, they get a feeding upgrade. Alfalfa hay is added to their rations.

The non-pregnant ewes do not get alfalfa hay. They don't need the extra calories, and alfalfa hay is expensive.

When I separate the flock, the pregnant ewes remain in the sheep/horse barn. The non-pregnant group move about, depending on the weather. If it's not raining, snowing or blowing sideways, they hang out in the pasture with the pine trees. When the weather is bad, I move them to the other barn that is big and spacious and has neither electricity nor running water.

Fun facts about sheep: When the weather is cold, they eat a lot more hay. When the pasture is snow-covered, they eat a lot more hay. When sheep eat more hay, they drink a lot more water. In fact they drink gallons of water. Water weighs about 8 lbs. a gallon.

We received our first ground-covering snow for the year on Sunday. With temperatures staying below freezing, it's stuck around. When looking at the weather report to determine the best day for sheep sorting, I saw this: 9 degrees, 7 degrees, minus 2 degrees.

Visions of frozen water buckets danced in my head. When temperatures dip to the single digits, buckets of water freeze in less than an hour. Without heated water buckets, it becomes harder to ensure sheep have fresh water.

And, so I made new plans.

Because alfalfa hay was readily available this year, I'd bought more than I planned to use. I'd hoped this would be the year I had alfalfa bales left over. Whether that happens is still too early to tell.

However, I'll be using those extra bales in the coming week to supplement the entire flock with alfalfa hay. The entire flock is staying together until temperatures climb above freezing during the days. They'll stay in the sheep/horse barn that has both electricity and running water. And I'll try not to cringe when I feed the non-pregnant ewes expensive alfalfa hay.

Living on a farm, I've learned that plans are great, but drought, flood, winds, and cold snaps can change them in an instant. Maybe that's why I have sheep, horses, cats and dogs. They've taught me to adapt and to keep adapting rather than getting set in my ways.

How much do sheep like alfalfa? Enough to run over me while I'm putting it in the feeders. Bubba moves them to another pasture so that I can feed.

The Unsung Hero of the Sheep Flock

 

The wether, center, is the decision maker when in with the ram lambs.

Imagine your only purpose in life is being a friend.

That's the role of our wether.

The castrated male sheep moves from pasture to pasture, offering friendship and comfort.

As herd and prey animals, sheep find comfort and safety in numbers. One of the worst things you can do to a sheep is isolate him or her. Yet, sometimes a sheep must be kept from the flock.

Because Katahdins can breed year-round, and we don't want lambs year-round, the ram must be separated from the ewes for several months of the year. But isolating a ram for months on end is cruel, and leads to an aggressive (or even more aggressive) animal.

Thus, the wether and ram spend months hanging out together, usually in a pasture far away from the ewes. When with the ram, the wether grazes by his side and ruminates next to him.

On our farm, the wether's social circle changes several times throughout the year. Now, that it's winter, and we don't have a breeding ram, the wether hangs out with the ewe flock. He bellies up to the hay feeder with the ewes, and says nothing as they have their ewe squabbles.

In the summer, when we wean the ram lambs, he'll move over to the ram lamb flock. Lambs are horrible decision makers, and having a calm adult sheep  helps them negotiate those big decisions in life, like whether to go through the gate opening or try to run through the fence, or whether to run at the sight of a dog or turn and face it. Our current wether is a mellow fellow and brings a calmness to the ram lamb flock.

When we get another breeding ram, then the wether will move in with him.

The wether does this without complaint or protest. Maybe, he realizes that being a friend is not such a bad lot in life.

Counting Sheep

Ask me how many horses I have and I answer promptly.

Two.

How many chickens?

Five. (It's been a rough chicken year)

How many cats?

Two indoor and two outdoor.

How many dogs?

I pause on this question, depending on who is doing the asking. If it's a sheepdog friend, I'll say six. If it's someone else, I'll dance around that question as I don't want to sound like a crazy dog lady.

How many sheep?

This question gets a quizzical look, and it's not because I don't want to appear like a crazy sheep lady. It's that the number varies with the seasons.

During the winter, we keep about 35-40 ewes. About half of those are bred; the others, a combination of older cull ewes and ewe lambs, are kept for training the Border collies.

In late March and early April, the sheep population explodes during lambing season, and the number usually climbs to 70-75 sheep.

Then, over the course of the next several months, the numbers drop.

The ewe flock grazing on a November day.

I sell most of my yearling ewes that I've used for sheepdog training; I often sell some other ewes, either as culls or breeding stock; a few ram lambs are sold for breeding stock; others are sold for meat. Usually, by November or December, the number drops to about 35-40 ewes.

The ram lambs will be with us only for a few more weeks.

The white wether will join the ewe flock.

In the next few weeks, the last group of ram lambs is scheduled to go to the butcher. So, for three months, until lambing season, I'll be able to answer 37.

The Two-Fence Rule

 

The ewe lambs with their two house mothers.

As the days get shorter and the nights colder, our sheep care not about pumpkin spice, camp fires nor elections. For them, it's breeding season.

For me, it's strict adherence to the two-fence rule; two fences must separate the groups of sheep.

On the farm, unlatched gates happen. They don't happen often, but they do. When ewes or rams discover unlatched gates during breeding season, pregnancy happens, and it happens fast. One year, a ram impregnated three ewes in six hours. In another, an eight-hour party resulted in four pregnancies. The two-fence rule is meant to prevent that.

During the summer months and early fall, it's easy to adhere to the two-fence rule. We have two groups of sheep: the girls (mature ewes and ewe lambs) and the boys (mature ram, wether and ram lambs). Because we have several pastures, it's fairly easy to ensure that the girls and boys are not in adjacent pastures.

Now that it's breeding season, we have three groups of sheep: the ram lambs that will go to the butcher in November, the ewes lambs and house mothers that I'll use for working dogs on through the winter and spring; and the breeding ewes and ram.

Sticking to the two-fence rule becomes a three-ring circus. But breeding season is only for three weeks, and then we'll be back to two groups.

Two fences and 40 feet may separate the rams lambs from the ewes, but they're still drawn to each other.

In other farm happenings: Fall cleaning is beginning. A frost killed everything in the garden except for some chard and snow peas, so I'll be cleaning out the garden this week. And, then my attention turns toward field edges and fence rows.

Night Sounds I Don't Want to Hear

This was not the lamb bleating in the night. That would require too much energy for this guy.

Funny how a day after reading about the increased use of melatonin among children, a lamb is keeping me awake.

It is raining, as it has been for hours, and the windows are cracked open to let in a bit of breeze.

They're also letting in the sound of a bleating lamb.

It's not the cry of pain or fear or lonesomeness.

It's the cry of "I'm awake and I want my mommy."

Lambs, like children, play hard and sleep hard.

In the hours before sunset, they engage in lamb races, where the lamb pack runs in circles around the field, hen house or their mothers. After about 20 minutes of this, they fall into a heap, exhausted, and sleep through the night.

But downpours canceled lamb races last night. Instead of racing, the lambs retreated to the barn. And, at 3 a.m., one is not tired.

Usually when a lamb bleats, its mother responds. No ewe responds to this lamb, though.

I'm sure they're doing what parents do everywhere--hiding their heads under the pillows and hoping that someone else will take care of it.

Celebrating too Early?

I was patting myself on the back for a successful lambing season: 34 lambs in 16 days, a nearly 200 percent lambing rate, two gentle assists, no dead lambs and only one undersized lamb who is determined to catch up.

Then, as I was moving the ewes and lambs to pasture, I saw it: a ewe with a bald patch on her side.

My flock are mostly Katahdins with a touch of Dorper. Unlike wool sheep, these hair sheep shed their winter coats in the spring and reveal a short, summer coat. But this ewe wasn't revealing a short coat. She had a bald spot.

I had 3 choices:

I could ignore it and hope it magically went away.

I could take a photo and post it to sheep groups on the internet and receive lots of advice on medications and treatments that may or may not work.

I could isolate the ewe and her twin lambs and call my vet.

When you own sheep, you do most of the vet work yourself. A vet call for a ewe is usually about half the price of the ewe. However, if you're worried about a flock issue--and visions of bald sheep were running through my head--then a vet call is worth it.

I called my vet. While his expertise is horses, he grew up with sheep and is familiar with most diseases, parasites, and other problems that affect sheep.

He ruled out mites and lice and other parasites. She was a big, healthy ewe who wasn't scratching, depressed or worried one bit about going bald. Hormones? This was her first pregnancy. Bedding? He wasn't sure. But he was almost definite it wasn't a flock problem. So, we dosed her with ivermectin and vitamins.

To be on the safe side, he recommended isolating her and her ewes from the flock for several weeks. And, unlike humans in this age of Covid-19, she doesn't have to wear a mask.

Update on 4/16/2020: After posting this, three yearling ewes also showed signs of hair loss. So, I contacted Brady Campbell who leads the sheep team at Ohio State University. I provided him with my vet's report, my hay analysis and a detailed description and history.

He reported that hair and wool loss in ewes post parturition isn't uncommon due the huge nutritional stresses on the ewe. While I was supplementing the ewes with corn due to the bad hay year, their diets were a little light in protein. So, I'm adding protein to their diets until the pastures come on in the next few weeks. 

And, on another note, a huge shout out to state extension services. They've always been a great resource for sheep, farming, gardening, etc. 

Sheep Math

When asked how many lambs we're expecting this year, I pause.

It shouldn't be a difficult question. We consistently have a 200 percent lambing rate. That means if we breed 10 ewes, we expect 20 lambs. Most ewes have twins; a few may have a single or a lamb may die; others have triplets. It averages out to two lambs per ewe.

So, to answer the question, all I do is multiply the number of bred ewes by two.

And, that's where it gets tricky.

I selected 15 ewes for breeding in the fall, marked their backs with a grease marker, and turned them out with the ram. The rest of the flock (the extremely young and the cull ewes), I kept separate for sheepdog training.

A few weeks after doing this, I went to a dog trial. Some unauthorized mingling went on while I was away. Upon finding three delinquents with the ram, I marked them. Past experience tells me they're most likely bred. Because grease marks fade, I re-marked the ewes several times through winter.

Pregnant ewes need extra nutrition during their last 7 weeks of pregnancy. So, last month I separated the "marked" sheep from the unbred ewes. Nineteen ewes looked at my, licking their lips in anticipation of corn and second-cutting hay.

Where did the extra ewe come from?

 In the low winter light, did I mistake dirt for grease markings and mark an extra ewe?

Or, had a clever ewe marked herself, hoping for some better food in late winter?

As I walk through the flock of pregnant ewes, I look for the imposter.

"Not me," these girls say.

No need to ask these two.

I'm sure the answer will be revealed in another month or so.

Little Victories on the Sheepdog Trial Field

The trial field at Edgeworth.

I can fill pages with everything I learned at the Virginia Triple Crown Sheepdog Trials. (But, because this is a blog--I'll refrain, sort of, I promise).

Over the course of nine days, Bubba ran six times on three different fields with three different types of sheep. Emma ran five times.

My main goal was to continue forming a partnership with Bubba. He arrived at the farm in late May, fully trained. But he has a different style than my previous dogs--and I have a different style than his previous handler. We aren't yet a solid team (though we made big leaps over the past few weeks).

I also wanted to get more experience on working on big fields with different types of sheep.

So here's a little about what we learned:
1. A dog that finds sheep at 600 yards away is an amazing thing.
I have never sent a dog 600 yards to find sheep, and I stood at the post, whistle at the ready, watching and hoping. The dogs took off, looking and casting out, running over hills and out of sight a few times, and I had to trust they were on the right path. They were.

2. Both of my dogs did poorly at flanking on the fetch (until they got closer to me).
That means I'm going to have to practice flanking on the fetch, walking out to correct them, and to keep increasing my distance. It'll be a good winter project.

3. Eleven minutes is a really long time.
Over the past few years, I've really worked on focusing and observing what my dog and the sheep are doing on the field (instead of what I hope they are doing). As the dog is working, I'm watching and asking: When I give a flank whistle, does my dog take it? Does he slice his flank? How are the sheep responding? Where is the line? This still doesn't come  naturally to me. Thus, 11 minutes is a really long time. (Most courses I run are in the 8-minute range).

4. Even at a sheepdog trial, you can phone a friend.
With Bubba, I've been working on whistle cues, flanks, timing and shedding, but not so much on penning. After two failed attempts at the pen, I called his previous handler and trainer. "He's a big dog," she said. If he sliced a flank, even a little bit, it would be enough to unsettle the sheep. "Tell him to get out before you flank him," she said. I tried it at the next trial. It wasn't smooth, nor pretty. But it helped and we penned the sheep.

5. Working four lambs is really hard. 
I have lambs at home. I know how unpredictable they can be, especially when they don't have an older ewe as a leader. Working four lambs that were in a new environment and that hadn't been worked in small groups was really challenging. Sometimes they wanted to look at the dog. Sometimes they wanted to run. Sometimes they did a little of both.

6. You can retire, and still be impressed with your dog
Sheep behave differently depending on who is in their group, the dog, the weather and the time of day. At one trial, I ran during a difficult afternoon stretch when the sheep seemed to be winning. They kept running back to the set out pens, and there were more disqualifications and retires than scores on the board. When I sent Emma to get the sheep, she found them, but then a wily ewe got past her and bolted down a hill and out of sight. I could not see what was going on. After scanning the hilltop for what seemed like minutes, I retired and began the 400 yards up the field to find my dog. That's when I heard, "She's got the sheep" being relayed from the set-out person. Several seconds later, the sheep appeared on the hilltop, and Emma was bringing them to me--and handlers were applauding her efforts. She won.

7. At a trial, my whistles sound like a banshee--and Bubba doesn't speak that language.
My trial whistles sound nothing like my practice whistles. Thank you adrenaline. My other dogs have put up with it. Bubba does not. To him, it sounds like I'm yelling at him. Don't let his size fool you. He's a big marshmallow. Halfway through my third run, I realized what was happening and softened my whistles. The improvement was dramatic. Bubba is going to train me to soften my whistles, and that's a good thing.

8. Bubba is also going to teach me to watch for and correct sliced flanks.
Bubba is a big dog and a little slice has a big impact on the sheep. When I saw it and corrected for it, the drive got better.

9. Not all sheep are the same.
Katahdin sheep were used in all three trials--and all behaved differently. At the first trial, we worked four Katahdin lambs that were unpredictable and tricky and not used to being worked by dogs. At the second, we worked two lambs and a ewe that were seldom worked by dogs. While the lambs had a leader, the lead ewe often acted like she had no friends and would split from the lambs. Both of these combinations required a dog that could push the sheep along. At the third trial, we worked three ewes who were used to being worked by dogs. I made the mistake of not stopping Bubba when he reached his sheep and putting the brakes on him. It made for a lively run and a lesson learned.

10. My dogs amaze me.
No, I'm not bragging. I just am amazed at how hard they work and how hard they try to be right and how willing they are to work with me and to put up with my blunders.

The Littlest Lamb

Our first lamb of spring was the smallest born on the farm, and I never expected her to live. She was half the size of her sister and could barely reach her mom's udder.

Twice a day I gave her a shot of Nutri-Drench, which gave her some extra calories and minerals. But, I never offered her a bottle. She was nursing and her mother was accepting her.

Every day, that little lamb peered out from behind her mother, letting me know she was still there.

While the other lambs packed on the pounds, she added ounces.

Now, 5 weeks after her birth, the cat still outweighs her.

But, she is eating, drinking and exploring--and it's time to move out of the barn. So this weekend, she, her sister and mom are moving from the barn and joining the rest of the flock.

I think she'll do just fine.

Searching for That Sweet Spot

Niki brings in the flock so that I could separate the flock. 

Spring is five months away, and that means sheep breeding season starts today.

Over the years, we've lambed as early at late February and as late as late April--all in an effort to hit that sweet spot when:

--Winter is over.

--The spring grass is coming on.

--Fly season hasn't started.

--The lambs are market weight by late October.

--Lambs are born before sheepdog trial season begins.

We've been raising sheep for well over a decade, and we have yet to hit that sweet spot.

This past year, we opted for early lambing, and ended up feeding hay as we watched winter hang on and on.

So, for 2019, we're aiming for the first day of spring. (A ewe's gestation period is 5 months).

This afternoon, I sorted the flock, separating the breeding ewes from the ewe lambs and dog-working sheep. I turned the ram out with the breeding ewes and moved them to a separate pasture.

In five months, we hope to have lambs born into sunshine and green grass.

Will it happen? We'll just have to wait and see.

Roxie, the mischievous barn cat,  parked herself in front of the pasture gate, making the sheep sorting process more of a challenge.

One Brain Cell

The ram lambs often move as a collective clump.

At four months of age, the ram lambs are separated from the flock and enter their state of bachelorhood. They live in a separate pasture, and graze, ruminate and sleep together.

The time spent on sheep care goes up.

Not only do we have to ensure the ram lambs are getting plenty of food and water, we also must deal with their erratic behavior.

For the most part, the flock of ewes and ewe lambs behave in a predictable manner. The lead ewe, often an older, wiser animal, makes the decisions about when the flock goes to pasture, when it worries about people, when it sleeps, and when it runs.

The ram lambs have no leader. Instead, they act as a collective clump that often makes bad decisions.

Sometimes they startle at the sight of a dog and go sprinting across the field. Sometimes they sprint, just because. Sometimes the group splits, and they stand in a state of wonder. How will they ever get back together?

The Border collies and I must practice lots of patience.

Tonight, when moving the ram lambs to another pasture, three lambs decided to dart into the waterway. Were they older ewes, I would have sent the dog to reunite the flock. Doing that with ram lambs may have sent the three on a suicide mission into the fence. So, I asked the dog to lie down and wait as the one-brain-celled group figured out how to reunite with the others.

Eventually they did.

But will they remember this lesson tomorrow?

I'm not counting on it.

The Border collies learn to keep their distance and to move slowly around ram lambs.

Starting Spring with Creative Stall Building

Lambs and ewes hang out under the lean-to after the storm.

Usually I don't worry about sub-freezing weather or a little snow and rain.

But when the winds blow from the east at 30 mph, and right into the sheep's lean-to, and promise to deliver 5 inches of snow, I take action.

Lambs are pretty hardy creatures, but dampness, wind and freezing temperatures will chill them. So, I had to find some way to bring them into the barn and out of the wind and snow.

Our barn was originally designed for horses. When the sheep came along, we built a lean-to on the east end. It provides shade in the summer, and protection from the west wind. It was offering them no protection on Monday night.

So I spent the evening looking at the horse/sheep barn and tryng to figure out where I could fit the sheep. I didn't want to sort and divide the flock and place different groups in different horse stalls. The odds of getting the wrong ewe with the wrong lamb were pretty high.

So, I did some creative stall building. And in 30 minutes I had a labyrinth in the barn that allowed the sheep to get inside and out of the wind.

Of course, it left me with no aisle ways--and I'm getting better at climbing over gates.

But it seemed to work.

New friends were made overnight.

The winds are supposed to die down tonight--so the sheep can return to the lean-to, and I can reclaim the barn.

Sidenote: I bought the smaller sheep pipe panels last year, and have added them to my While-Didn't-I-Do-it-Sooner List. They're easy to move and configure into all kinds of pens and corrals.

State of Wonder

In her first day, the lamb learns how to nurse, tests her jump moves and watches her mom for signs of danger. She mouths hay and dunks her nose in the water. In the evening, she snuggles up to her sister for a nap.

This is our 11th lambing season, and I still find myself drawn to the barn and filled with a sense of wonder.

For the first time this year, we have a lamb with a distinguished sock.

Did it come from his paternal side? Or was there some gene on his maternal side, slumbering for generations and just now showing itself?

Or did he know that he'd enter this world on a Monday when mismatched socks sometimes happen?

I think I'll call him Monday.

When Ma Nature Gives You Snow...

Lambs are to be born into sunshine and the promise of green grass, not freezing winds and snow.

But this has not been a normal winter.

With lambing season days away and a weather forecast calling for high winds and below freezing temperatures, I find myself in the barn, figuring out how to find space for 10 pregnant ewes.

The sheep and horses spend most of their time in the pastures or under lean-tos that provide protection from rain and west winds. They seem happier having space to move around--and I am not spending hours mucking manure from stalls.

In normal springs, I don't worry about ewes delivering lambs outside. Only once have I had a lamb chill in the spring winds--and a hair dryer dried it and warmed it.

Freezing winds will chill a lamb quickly. So, I've tucked the ewes in groups of three and four in horse stalls for a few days, just in case lambs don't want to wait for sunshine.

The Inefficient Farmer

As I carried four flakes of hay to lambs in the front pasture, returned to the barn with a bucket full of ice and walked back to the pasture with a bucket of water, I thought of a farm planning book I'd read years ago.

Minimize your steps. Efficient farmers design their layout so that few steps are involved in the daily chores.

I didn't follow that advice, and for the past month, I've been highly inefficient, and walking thousands of steps during morning chores so that I can offer hay and water to lambs in one pasture, to breeding ewes and a ram in another pastures, and to dry, or unbred, ewes that I use for sheepdog training in a third pasture.

It's not like this most years.

Most years I schedule the lambs to go to the butcher in early November. But scheduling conflicts pushed the date to December, when the pastures have little grass left and when water freezes overnight.

That changed this weekend when the lambs went to the butcher; I then moved to the ram and wether to the barn and merged the ewes into one flock.

On Monday morning, I walked 10 steps to feed the horses; 15 steps to feed the ram and his friend, and 15 steps to feed the ewes.And, with chores completed and extra time on my hands, I lingered in the barn, petting the cat, watching the ram nibble his hay, burying my hands under the horse's mane, and still the model of inefficiency.

The Wailing Lamb

I take great joy in looking out my office window and seeing ewes and lambs grazing in the pasture.

As the morning moves on, the lambs tire of grazing and nap. The ewes though, still nursing lambs and needing calories, keep walking and gobbling up grass.

I write and watch as the ewes move down the hill. Most lambs follow.

But one, snoozing in the morning sun, does not.

When he awakes, he sees no ewes or lambs. They've all moved about 50 yards down the hill.

He does what lambs do, what we adults would like to do when things are not going our way.

He stands up and wails and wails.

As lambs grow older, the ewes respond less and less quickly to lamb wails. A 30-day-old lamb calling for his mother only elicits a couple "over here" baas from mom before she returns to grazing.

The lamb wails again, hoping she'll come.

She doesn't.

Giving in, he lopes toward his mother and other sheep. The lambs and sheep return to munching grass.

And, I return to my work, happy to be diverted by lambs.

The Longest Lambing Season

Sometimes lambing season is fast and furious, starting and ending within five days.

In those years, we're greeted with newborn baas every morning.

This year, we decided to make life easy on ourselves and only bred seven ewes.

Lambing season is going on and on and on.

The first lambs, twins, arrived March 11, to a first-time mom.

That set us into "lamb watch" mode.

We pasture our sheep, letting them graze and roam up until they give birth. Once they give birth, we bring them into the barn. It allows us to keep an eye on them for a bit--and makes the lambs easier to catch when it's time for vaccinations and other procedures.

Our "lamb watch" mode stretched on for days, and then a week, until finally on March 22, our Big Red Ewe delivered boys.

Surely the others would follow.

But again days went by until the evening of March 26.

Our Dilute Spotted Ewe gave birth to Katahdin/Dorper triplets that were ready to take on the world.

I expected to awake on Easter Sunday to lambs galore. Four ewes were still pregnant, so that could mean 7, 8, 9 or 10 lambs.

Easter Sunday morning was glorious, with sun and bird song and blooming daffodils--but no lambs.

When we return from Easter festivities on Sunday evening, we expected to be sorting lambs in the dark, but no new lambs.

A window in my home office gives me a panoramic view of the sheep pasture. I spend hours watching them graze, looking for that one ewe that's isolating herself.

I saw one lying down yesterday, for 10 minutes, then 20, then 30. I went outside to investigate, only to discover it was Skinny Non-Pregnant Ewe taking an afternoon nap.

Today, in late afternoon, the sheep ambled to the barn to check for hay. It was there I found Neck Roll Ewe giving birth to twins.

It's now Day 20 of lambing season--and we have three ewes, Blood Spot Ewe, Tan Ewe and White Ewe, yet to lamb. A storm is brewing this evening. Maybe, just maybe?

But probably not.

Lamb TV

Lambs are born curious, ready to explore the world.

A 10-month-old cat, experiencing lambing season for the first time, is equally as curious.

When the cat, Little One, jumps into the lamb pen, the ewe eyes her, but doesn't move from her spot. She quietly watches as her 2-day-old ewe lamb walks up to the cat and buries her nose in Little One's coat. The lamb sniffs and nuzzles, then finally lifts her head.

The lamb's twin brother approaches the cat next and gives her a good sniff.

Both lambs watch as the cat drinks from the water bucket.

Then Mama Ewe decides the cat lesson is over for the day, She walks up to the cat and nudges her. When the cat doesn't move, the ewe gives her a head butt, steps back and watches the cat jump from the lamb pen.

Weather Limbo

When we moved to the farm years ago, I chuckled when the farmer said, "We always get a good rain during fair week," and "there's always a cold snap during the pork conference."

I soon fell into the rhythms of farm life, and learned to count on January blasts of cold and snow, of Februaries that teased with thaws and more snow, of mud-filled March. I transplanted plants in the garden on Mother's Day weekend and looked forward to those late August rains.

But in this year of non-winter, my internal clock is off. We've had little snow, and even less freezing weather. Temperatures reached into the 70's this weekend.

Because it was warm, my body said to clean the barn, to hang clothes on the line--even though it was February.

Because it was February, I admired the crocus that peak through blades of green.

And I worry that the other bulbs are emerging too early.

Because we haven't had weeks of snowy weather and being confined indoors, I have yet to plan my spring garden.

And I really have to think about when lambing season begins.

Lambs are usually the bright spot among the March snow, ice and mud.

But we have little mud, and no frozen ground, and the pregnant ewes are content to browse the pastures looking for morsels of green.

They wear thick winter coats and are hanging onto them a little longer.

Because everything in their bones says that winter isn't over yet.

That Sweet Spot

Walking into the barnyard in the morning light, I hear bleating--softer and higher pitched than the demanding ewes.

Lambs! Four of them, scattered around the barnyard.

But that can't be, I argued with myself.

October, September, August, July, June...

Counting the months backwards finally rouses me awake. But it took me a few more minutes to settle from the nightmare.

I love lambing season--but I also am reveling in these carefree November days.

We are in that sweet spot of the year when our livestock numbers are down--and I'm carrying very little hay and water.

The lambs went to market last month, and we sold the two rams earlier this month. No longer do we deliver water to the lamb pasture, the breeding ewe pasture, the ram pen, the dry ewe pasture.

The 15 remaining ewes and the llama all hang out together. With pasture still available and a warmer-than-usual fall, that means I deliver one five-gallon bucket of water to the sheep daily.

The winter flock. No, the one playing the wheelbarrow game is not a ram; she's a ewe. I checked--multiple times.

The horses, too, are able to graze the pasture at night. During the day, they receive only one flake of hay each.

Earlier this fall, we sent the young roosters to the butcher and merged the young chicken flock with the old chicken flock. We're only delivering food and water to one group.

That means chores take 15 minutes, morning and night. And most of that time is spent playing with the barn kitty.

These carefree days will end soon, when freezing temperatures arrive and I become the ice breaker. Eventually pastures will be grazed down and I'll become the hay hauler. And the 15 minutes will become 20, then 25 and 30.

For now, though, I'll enjoy it--and try to avoid those sheep dreams.