Yesterday found me outside in the cold, pouring rain at 6:30 am slogging through chores before heading off to my temporary job as a dental office receptionist.
Twenty minutes later I was sitting in my empty bathtub, fully clothed, cuddling two cold, wet, newborn lambs to my belly.
The most ironic part of this story is that these were lambs from Berrit, one of my three Icelandic ewes who are not supposed to be pregnant.
In fact, we had purposefully chosen not to breed them last fall after bringing them home in October. We wanted to give them a chance to grow up a bit first.
And I trusted that the "wethered" ram lambs we purchased last spring were, in fact, wethered. Now I'm no expert when it comes to ram paraphernalia, but they certainly looked different than the intact ram lambs we had the year before.
So I believed the farmer.
Oopsy.
Oopsy.
Daisy.
The chickens are disturbed about sharing their space...
Berrit doesn't seem to thrilled about it, either.
Cheers -
Cheers -
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