My Icelandic ewes love sunflower seed and alfalfa pellets.  

They love them so much {snow much?} they will go rooting around in the snow to find them. 

When winter drags on and on, sometimes it's the little amusing things like this that make the winter tolerable. 

Berrit photo poo bomb

Cheers - 

There's a new guy in town - a black ram lamb by the name of Ty that we're leasing for the breeding season. 

Last year our three Icelandic ewes were accidentally bred by an overwintering castrated ram.  

{Yes indeed, castrated.  If you've ever seen an intact ram with his fuzzy boys hanging down nearly to his ankles, you would not mistake an intact ram for a castrated ram lamb.  The boys we had last year were definitely castrated. Apparently someone had something retained that was still functioning despite the lack of physical evidence}

The flock was so surreptitious about the whole thing that I never did see anyone breeding or suspect any of my girls were pregnant. 

Until late April when we sheared them and realized with a shock they were all imminently due. 

This year we were going to be a lot more intentional about the whole thing. 

Unfortunately, we don't own an Icelandic ram yet.  So finding one was the biggest challenge. 

I contacted all of the local Icelandic breeders that I could find and nobody was interested in leasing us a ram.  This struck me as odd, since in the alpaca world that I am much more familiar with, leasing a herdsire is a very easy task.  

I was about to give up in frustration when I located an Icelandic group on Facebook and less than a day after posting my request, Papa Bear and I were meeting some very nice folks in the parking lot of a hotel in DeForest, WI and moving Ty from their dog kennel to ours. 

On Sunday we put him in with our girls, after first removing all of the ewe lambs from the paddock. 

Our biggest two lambs went to market {if you're anywhere between Madison, WI and Minneapolis, WI, we will gladly deliver your order for a whole lamb! Contact us on our Facebook page} and two went into a temporary holding pen until all the breeding is done.  

These ewe lambs are so small we don't want them bred by the ram. I'm also hoping that by separating them and holding them in a smaller pen, I will be able to tame them up a bit.  

These lambs are wild, wild wild!  I can't even get near them to give them the treats that the older ewes enjoy.  In a smaller space, I can give them good things to eat and sit with them until they learn not to be so terribly skittish.  I can also give them extra hay that they won't have to compete for against the bigger animals. 

But back to Ty and the ewes. 

Since our ewes bred in secret last year, I was curious to see what this sheep dating business would entail.  

There was a lot of sniffing and licking (not licking each other, just a lot of tongue flicking out of the mouth), lots of tail wagging, and occasionally Ty would lift one stiff front leg up in front of his body at a ewe. 

He also displayed the upper lip curl, a behavior known as "flehmen response," which is one of his ways to check for a ewes receptivity. 

I saw him attempt to breed a couple of times, but it seemed he was too short compared to the height of the ewe to, um, reach the goal...  

I've been assured by an experienced breeder that the ewes will assist him in "Tying one on" when they are ready. 

{snort}

So I left them to their little huddle and went on with my chores.  

I've learned that in sheep their estrus cycle is approximately 17 days, and she will be receptive to the ram for only about 24-36 hours during the peak of her estrus cycle.  So she should come until heat every 16-17 days until she is bred.  British long wool breeds tend to be short-day, seasonal breeders, coming into heat in Oct./Nov.  

Unlike alpacas, which are induced ovulators and can become pregnant any time of the year (which is why you must run your males separately unless you are trying to have your females bred). 

The alpacas were not one wit concerned about what the sheep were doing, either.  

Which I find fascinating.  The ewes knew Ty was a sheep and was a ram and were extremely interested in him, whereas the alpacas knew he was not an alpaca and could not care less what he was doing.  How do they know?  Sight? Smell?  Sound?  Pheremones? 

I suppose I will never know.  

But what I do know is that next spring when we shear the ewes in late April, if we see filling udders and wide bellies, we will rejoice in the knowledge that they did indeed successfully "Ty" one on and soon we'll have Icelandic lambs bounding across the green pastures.

Cheers - 

It's easy to photograph the main event of the moment....

the animals going about their morning routines...

but what you cannot see, perhaps just is well, is the photographer in her fuzzy red bathrobe, black stocking hat, blue muck boots, standing on the split rail fence for a better shot...

you cannot hear my bantam rooster Allspice singing his tiny little heart out, or his flock of hens clucking as they exchange their morning chicken gossip... 

I wish you could.  It is all so lovely and wonderful and sometimes, hilarious. 

Especially the photographer in her fuzzy red bathrobe and muck boots. 

Cheers - 

We sheared the Icelandic ewes this weekend, then tucked them into the cheep shed for a couple of nights to get used to having all of their warm fuzzies removed.

When we let them back out into the paddock, the alpacas were very, very confused.  I've never seen Oakley stand in one spot for so long, not moving, just watching.

The girls were also momentarily confused, although they figured it out before Oakley did.

The sheep were of course oblivious to the confusion they were causing.

Cheers -

It is 11:00am and I am sitting in my kitchen, watching a 4 month old ram lamb lying on his side on an old rug on my kitchen floor. A hair dryer plays over his wet wool, warming him.

His eyes are open and he is ruminating, both of which are improvements over when I found him this morning in the pasture, lying on his side in a cold rain, eyes closed.

I thought he was dead.

But when I approached, I could see his sides moving. He was still breathing.

I scooped up his tiny body and brought him into the warm, dry kitchen where he now lays.

I have no idea if he will live or die.  But I decided if he is to die today, he will not do so alone in a cold, wet pasture.

Yesterday, a lame turkey poult we had been nursing for two months died quietly in the sunshine in the barn.

Earlier this week, a raccoon reached through the electric net fence enclosing a group of young turkeys and grabbed one, killing it, but unable to breach the electric netting to take it out of the paddock, left it dead where it lay.

This has all happened within the past week.

***

My husband and I and our menagerie of critters have lived on our 40-acre farm in southwestern Wisconsin for a little over two years now.  Prior to that neither of us had ever raised livestock save for a few bum calves my husband and his sister raised as 4-H projects in their youth.

In my youth I loved all animals. I remember going out to spring my dad's leg traps in the garden, and after graduating high school and volunteering on a wildlife rehabilitation center and learning about our industrial methods of raising meat animals, giving up eating meat for the next five years.

I had the very naive idea that I was somehow removed from death through these simple acts.

But the truth of the matter is, we're all going to die some day.  We are all a part of the food chain. We all know this, and yet, we forget.

***

In a world were we are so separated from death - from the neatly wrapped packages of meat in the grocery store to the way we tuck away our aged and sick in hospitals and institutions out of the eyes of the mainstream - we often forget that we, too, will also die some day.

We are born, we live, we die.

We forget that the circle of life would not exist without that little part about death.

We do not get to cheat death just as we do not get to decide where we are born or how long we live.

And so we fool ourselves into thinking we have forever to cross that item off our bucket list, tell that special someone we love them, forgive an old hurt, or try out that hobby that fuels our passion.

***

Living on a farm brings the circle of life into much sharper focus.

I've watched a number of our animals give birth these last two years.  An alpaca cria nose and front two feet emerge from her mama and slip slowly towards the ground as her unbelievably long and gangly body and legs emerge behind.  Not even 45 minutes later, she is taking her first wobbly steps and searching for her mama's milk.

It is a miracle to see a life emerge into the wide open world.

But sometimes, it all goes wrong.

You find the baby lamb dead in the paddock while his sister lamb is up and nursing and healthy.

You watch the tiny cracks appear around the shell of the turkey egg in the incubator, its fluffy siblings peeping nearby, yet the poult never emerges, and you never know why.

The raccoon comes and steals your full-grown tom turkey off it's high roost, the turkey's headless remains stashed in the tall grass of the pasture for you to find in the morning.

***

This growing season has been especially hard on our livestock.  We have lost more animals this season than in the two seasons we've lived here previously.

We raise mostly poultry, with a few ruminants and several dozen rabbits.  It's not uncommon for the weakest kits in the litter to die while their stronger siblings thrive.

It's not uncommon to get a weak batch of broiler chickens from the hatchery who just do not thrive as they should.

But the death toll this year seems unusually unfair.

We have only half of our original flock of broad-breasted turkeys alive today, a result of poor genetics (at the hatchery) and determined raccoons.

Counting aborted fetuses and death from injury and an extremely harsh winter, I have lost half of my small alpaca herd since last fall.

Every single loss affects me, no matter how large or small the critter.  They are all under my care, and I feel personally responsible for their safety and welfare.

When an animal dies, I feel I have failed them in some way. This year, I have felt like I failed a lot.

So what have I learned from all of this death and loss?

gratitude

I have learned not to take the lives of my livestock for granted.

When a healthy baby bounds across the green pasture in pleasure, I make a conscious effort to express my gratitude for this miracle of life.

When my husband checks in with me at the end of the day and asks, "What went right today?"  Sometimes the only thing I can answer is, "Nobody died."  But that in itself is a gift that I am grateful for every day I am able to say it.

Likewise, I am also more grateful for my family and friends, and more conscious of expressing my gratitude for them and to them.

acceptance

I have learned that I cannot control the outcome of many things, despite my beliefs or best efforts.

The electric net fences I have supplied to keep predators out of the paddocks sometimes turn into deadly weapons when the critters they are meant to protect get tangled in them.

That doesn't mean the nets are bad. Some circumstances we cannot predict or prevent.

I am learning to accept the things I cannot control or change.  I don't always like them, but I accept that there is a greater plan for the animals - and the people I care about - that may be beyond my current understanding.

doing my best

I have learned that no matter how attentive we are as caregivers, sometimes animals will still die.

We offer the best possible care we are able to here, with organic supplements, new grass paddocks every week, clean water, sunshine and pure air.

We offer minerals to help boost immune systems, and electric nets to protect from predation.

And yet, animals still die sometimes.

I am learning not to blame myself when this happens - or if I am at fault, to learn from any mistake that was made, then release myself from an unhealthy cycle of shame and blame.

Likewise, I am learning how to forgive others that have harmed me, and release them from my continued judgement and blame for their mistakes.

trusting my intuition

I have learned to trust my intuition when it comes to reading the "animal language" on the farm.

There is always someone puzzling me on the farm.  Turkeys that are wheezing, rabbits that are sneezing, someone looking just a bit "off."  Without calling in the (very expensive) vet every time I see someone "not quite right," I have had to learn on relying on my gut instinct to tell me what might be wrong and what the best course of treatment might be - and when to call in an expert.

If you have trouble listening to your inner intuition, it's best not to rush or force it.  Observe whatever is happening.  Gather as many sensory clues as possible. Does my little ram lamb have diarrhea or very pale lower eyelids?  If so, probably a heavy parasite load.  Is my chicken wheezy?  Possibly mycoplasma.

If there are no clear visible clues, that's when it helps just to ruminate about the situation for awhile.  In a day or two or three, you may have a small idea somewhere in the back of your mind of what possibly may have happened.  The more you pay attention to this little voice, the more accurate it becomes.

I am always pleased when I have suspected a particular cause, then find out later (usually via a veterinarian) that I was right.

You have instincts and intuition for a reason - learn to trust - and use - them.

Teenagers often pose a similar dilemma.  They speak our language, but often we don't understand what they are telling us, or what they need.  Learning to "read between the lines" and listen to your inner voice will help you find solutions.

ending suffering

I have learned that making a critter comfortable or ending their suffering is sometimes the last gift we can give to them.

It is not always possible to tell if a critter is suffering. They don't speak our language, and many have evolved to hide their pain and discomfort.

We practice a form of intervention that follows the thought that if the animal still appears to be fighting for its life, we continue to fight for it as well.  That doesn't mean always calling the vet, but it may mean giving the critter its own space where it doesn't have to compete for food, or giving it a heat lamp so it doesn't have to expend energy to keep warm, or giving it special feed or supplements to help boost its recovery.

Not having to fight for food or resources is sometimes the only thing they need to get their fight back and recover enough to be placed back in the herd or flock.

But often, it just gives them a warm, quiet place to spend their final moments.

giving back

I have learned that giving something to someone else when I am hurting eases the pain of the loss.

When a small animal dies, I often leave it out in the back pastures on a rock for the wild animals who share our farm to get a "free" meal.

Recently one of our nearly full grown Tiger Bronze heritage tom turkeys was fighting with some other toms and got its foot tangled in the electric netting.  The other toms attacked it.  When I found it it was very weak - dying, but not dead.

I donated it to an Amish family with 10 children.  I knew they would use every part of it to feed and nourish their family.

We also regularly donate to charities that are making a difference around the world, like Heifer Project, Int'l, Central Asia Institute, and KIVA are just a few of the organizations we support.

grieving

Although death has come often on the farm this season, it still takes the wind out of my sails, especially if it is an unexpected death of a seemingly healthy animal.

There is always a grief process for me.  Sometimes I ball my eyes out.  Sometimes I just have a heavy lump in my stomach all day.  Whatever the circumstance, I know I have to go easy on myself that day and possibly even the next several.

My energy wanes, I get tired easily, and even the activities I normally enjoy will seem somehow dull and lifeless.

I know this happens, and so I am able to give myself permission to be slow, tired, and sad.

Sometimes I call a friend.  Sometimes I go visit a friend.  Sometimes I take a long walk on the property.  Sometimes I take a long nap or go to bed early.  Getting off the farm for a bit always seems to help.  Writing down what I am processing always helps.

Whatever I need to do, I accept that, and give myself time for the grieving process.

In a few days, I will feel back to my old self again, and life will resume.

honoring the circle of life

Most importantly, I have learned to accept death as a natural, and important, part of the circle of life.

We are all going to die.

For me, it is better to know a critter has lived a short, good life, than never had the chance to live at all.

That's what keeps me getting out of bed in the morning, despite the days where the raccoons seem to be winning, or I find a dying lamb in the cold rain in the pasture.

The lamb will die. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in months or years.

I will die.  Hopefully not today, but who knows.

What is it I have left undone in this life?  Who do I need to forgive?  Who needs to hear I love them? I will do it today.

My ram lamb still lays on the rug in the kitchen, ruminating quietly.  Karma, our Siamese kitten, has found him and curled up beside his belly, sharing her warmth, unafraid.

An odd combination perhaps, a boisterous kitten full of life lying quietly beside a dying lamb.

But it all makes sense to me.

Perhaps she knows if he will live or die.

I do not.

But for now, they curl together, sharing the warmth and the quiet.

Blessings -

We have five new farm flock members!  All three of our Icelandic ewes gave birth to twins last week, which caused quite a stir since we weren't planning for any lambs this spring.

{Apparently the "wethered" rams we got last year weren't entirely "wethered."}

All three little ladies delivered unassisted - Berritt's early Monday and Elli's early Wednesday, with Finn holding out on us until late Friday night.

Berrit had two ewe lambs - dubbed Oopsy and Daisy - and Elli had a ram and a ewe lamb.  Unfortunately Elli's ram lamb died before I even found it in the paddock.  Her ewe lamb is thriving however. She has one black eyebrow and after polling my Facebook friends, we're going with "Shiner."

We would have missed Finn's delivery entirely - probably with dire consequences - had I not been in Minneapolis for the day, returning to the farm around 11:00pm.

Earlier that day we had put Berrit and Elli and their babies and Finn, who looked like she should have delivered several days ago, into a very small electric net paddock to start teaching the babies about electric nets.

Everything on our farm moves around the pastures in electric net fences. It is very important that all of the animals learn to stay away from the fences, for their own safety.  Although touching the fence one time will merely give a little jolt, getting tangled in the fence can be lethal.

So with Berrit and Elli's babies a few days old, it was time to start their lesson.  After herding all of the ewes out of the barn and into the tiny paddock, we stood and watched them for a bit.

Sure enough, a small, curious nose soon touched the fence and the lamb quickly jumped back.  First lesson successful.

I've been told by other shepherds its better to teach lambs about fences when they are quite young, a day or two old, before they are completely boisterous and can run full-speed into the netting.

Everyone was doing fine, and I left for Minneapolis leaving Papa Bear in charge of keeping a close eye on Finn for the day.

Later in the afternoon PB texted me a photo of a little tarp shelter he put up for the ewes, since it had been raining on and off throughout the day.

{Awww, ain't he sweet?}

When I got home that night, he asked if I wanted to see the lambs.  I assumed he meant Finn had delivered her babies, but he chuckled and said no, but would I like to see the ewes inside their little tarp tent?

Of course I did.

So we bundled up and went back outside.  As soon as our flashlight shone across the paddock I counted five tiny white lambs where there should have only been three.

Finn had just delivered her twins!

It was apparent that one was very small and weak.  After watching for awhile to see if mama could get it up on its feet but with no success, we decided to take it inside and get it warm.

So for the second time in a week, I found myself with a cold, wet ewe lamb on my belly.

After warming her up for awhile we brought her back outside and brought both her and Finn into the warm barn. She was still weak and could not yet stand on her own.

We went to bed around 1:00am, trusting the little lamb to fight for her life and the universe to help her make it through the night.

We figured, if she was alive in the morning, we would continue to assist her.  If not, then she was apparently too weak out of the gate.

She lived.  Not only that, but she was up walking around the next morning.

However, Finn had bonded only with her male lamb and was rejecting her daughter.  And by rejecting I mean head butting her into the walls whenever she tried to nurse.

We painted her with Finn's placenta soaked in water in hopes the scent would help her mama accept her.

We spritzed both lambs with essential oils to confuse mama's scent-based recognition.

Nothing worked.

It was evident we'd need to try to bottle feed her and get her some colostrum ASAP.

A lamb is born without any immune system at all.  The only immunity they get is from their mama via her colostrum.  Without any colostrum, she'd surely fail to thrive and probably be very sickly if she survived at all.

But of course, we didn't have any colostrum, since we hadn't been expecting any lambs this spring.

So Saturday morning was spent zipping around to everyone we knew with sheep getting lambing supplies - raw milk, colostrum, bottle nipples, lamb replacer, even a catheter and syringe in case a tube feeding was necessary.

Jersey cow's colostrum from our friend Daffodil was the best we could find on such short notice, so after warming it up I tried giving it to the little peanut in a re-purposed Diet Coke bottle with a Pritchard lamb nipple.

To my complete amazement, after chewing on the nipple for awhile, she started sucking down the colostrum.

Yee-haw!

We are still hoping mama will accept her, but it's not likely at this point.  However, we have seen her snitching milk several times while her brother is nursing.

She is nothing if not determined.

So we continue to supplement her with raw cow's milk.

I've been taking to calling her "Little Liza," as in Nina Simone's "Little Liza Jane."  She's just a little peanut - only four pounds at birth - smaller than our Siamese kitten.

But she continues to amaze us with her will to survive, and endear us with her sheer determination.

So, 'lil Liza, welcome to the Little Farm.

Oh I've got a friend in Kendall.... Little Liza Jane....
The alpacas are confused by these little white fuzzballs...  Little Liza Jane.

Cheers -

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.

Daisy.

The chickens are disturbed about sharing their space...

Berrit doesn't seem to thrilled about it, either.

Cheers -

It's hard to believe I have been officially "retired" from my off-the-farm job for two months already. My image of my new, idyllic, carefree life full of long naps and long walks has not quite come to fruition.

Something about taxes needing prepped and fence lines needing brushed keep coming up as higher priorities.

{Mostly tax prep.}

Nevertheless, in between chores and taxes and fence lines I have been enjoying a new sense of time and space that comes from not being driven by anyone else's clock for the first time in over 25 years (longer if you count the schedule I had to keep while in school).

My treks to the back fence line (the farthest corner from the house) gives me ample opportunity to play with Gypsy.  She loves fetching things more than any other activity.  She loves chasing sticks so much that I had to train her not to chase after the brambles I tossed aside when I was cutting them off the fence line.

Brushing the fence line is best done in winter I discovered, when I can wear all of my insulated barn clothing (protection from scratches) and can work hard without getting too hot.  No bugs, either.  Which is handy when you have to cut a thorny bush that has a wasp nest bigger than a basketball embedded in it.

Besides taxes and fence lines, we've been eagerly anticipating the end of the month when our turkeys will hatch.  We've loaded up our little Styrofoam incubator (the cheapest one the farm supply store carried) with our own Sweetgrass heritage turkey eggs.

I've been carefully turning them three times a day and monitoring the heat and humidity levels.  We've candled them twice and only removed one egg, so I'm crossing my fingers for a successful hatch

And the lambs - well, the lambs are just fine.  Fat and sassy and happy.  Just waiting for spring, like the rest of us.

Cheers -