We weren’t supposed to have any lambs this year. But, accidents happen.
Yesterday morning, while frost still lay on the ground, baby Boo-Boo was born. His mama licked him dry, but the chill sapped his strength so he couldn’t nurse.
We milked some thick, yellow colostrum and bottle-fed him. Without the antibodies and calories in this precious, first milk, he would not survive. His strength picked up at once, but before he could learn to nurse, a bitter storm blew in.
Boo-Boo’s only chance was a move to the shed. Mama rode there in luxury.
Wind rattled the shed and whipped it with snow that raced horizontally across the sky. Inside, Mama and Boo-Boo were reunited.
Travis and I stayed up much of the night, trudging back and forth between house and shed, our arms laden with flashlights, nipple bottles, and old liquor bottles full of hot water to ward off hypothermia. Several times, as I dozed in my farm clothes between feedings, I wondered why we went to all this trouble for one, weak, unwanted lamb.
The answer, of course, is simply that it’s the right thing to do. Farming is about nurturing, about doing your best. You can’t look into a tiny, helpless face without knowing that it, like every living thing, deserves a chance.