Night Shift

No, there aren't pictures. That's because it's dark. I just came in from the 3:00 a.m. lambing shift. The Big Guy went out around 11:00 to feed the bottle babies. I woke shortly before 3.  Unable to sleep, I turned off  my 5:00 a.m. alarm and climbed out of bed.

Yes, I said  bottle "babies." After watching one of the ewes paw and pace all day, she dropped triplets in a back alley this afternoon. They couldn't have been there more than 45 minutes, but by the time I found them they were cold, wet, and somewhat trampled. Once again there was a great cacophony--minus that of lambs. They were too traumatized to bleat. The Big Guy and 15-year-old Grace came into the barn just in time to help sort things out and get the right ewe in the jug.

The Big Guy promised to take the younger girls to piano while I took Matthew to the orthodontist, so Grace and I talked through intubating. We had just prepared the milk when the Big Guy returned. Matthew and I took off for his appointment.

As of my most recent visit to the barn, the youngest and smallest of the new triplets is the only one doing well. The one we assume is the firstborn still isn't standing (12 hours later). He will not last long. The other is clearly a bottle baby at this point. And the quads? They're hale and healthy--for the moment.

Jublilation

I went to the barn this morning to check on our 11 ewes who are due to begin lambing--and found a beautiful set of quadruplets.  They were in a corner surrounded by three very busy mamas.  No pictures of the rodeo, but it did take some finagling to get the calf locked up and the right mama in a jug (small pen) with all four of her babies.

Surrogate Mama Number One was motivated by some aggressive ear-twisting to get out of the pen.  Surrogate Mama Number Two left on her own.  Needless to say, there was much mayhem.  When a ewe lambs, she instinctively turns in circles, looking for her prodigy and, once it's standing, nudges it to her udder.  Now that all the mamas heard the high-pitched bleating of the babies, they responded with deep-throated calls and turned in circles, running into each other.  One of the mamas who "lost" her babies was calling and pawing at the closed gate.

To warm the little ones up, I grabbed a heat lamp out from under the window cupboard (a 2x12" board that lifts on hinges across its top edge), climbed up onto the sides of the jug, and hung the lamp from a 16-penny nail in the wooden ceiling beam.  The cord didn't reach the outlet.  I would need an extension cord.  Before leaving for the cord, I fed and watered the mama hoping to distract her long enough for the babies to eat.

When we have triplets or quadruplets, we give them a boost by tube-feeding them pre-mixed colostrum.  Knowing a belly of warm milk would give them the shivers, I ran to the machine shop to get the necessary extension cord, shuffled back over the icy gravel to the barn, went through 2 sets of doors, a gate, and up on the sides of the jug, kissing cobwebs, to plug in the lamp.

I mixed the colostrum in the house, returned to the barn, checked the mama's udder to make sure she had milk (ewes have a wax plug at the end of each tit that has to be released before milk can pass).  Then I tube fed three of the babies, trimming and treating their fresh umbilical cords.  The other little one was contentedly nursing, so I let him be.

After Laura woke up we went to barn together.

 

By now everyone was settled down--except Grace's calf, Falcon.  He was so excited that he kept rubbing up against us, head-butting and pushing. 

After a sound pat on his side, he would run and jump in mad circles around the barn.  He was still running and jumping even as we left.  Who knew birthdays could be so exciting?

It's Raining Again

January--there should not be rain. There should not be rain in the basement. But there is. With a combination of repeated sub-zero temperatures, a 1911 farmhouse, and pipes under the old porch, the expected outcome? Flooding in January.

 

We spent the morning ripping out drywall, ruined insulation, soaked carpet and padding.  The old television had to go (it was the first one we purchased nearly 20 years ago!). Once again I was thankful that old farmhouses clean well. After tracking through the house with loads of wet garbage and boots, we wiped down the wood floors and stairs. Viola! I am nearly done with the extra wash (that had to wait until after the pipes were repaired of course). 

The Big Guy has just finished dropping off a load of corn at the elevator. Perhaps this afternoon he'll have time to put up the new insulation and drywall. All in all, we are thankful it wasn't worse--it could have been sewage, it could have ruined more--and now the temperature is nearly 20 degrees!  What's not to be thankful for?

Hay is Not Enough

Since the last posting, Christmas has come and gone with all its festivity and merriment. Now, back to life on the farm....

We received enough snow last night to merit a snow day from school. Once the snow slowed down, David cleared the drive with the tractor and blade. In an effort to shake our children from the house, we soundly cut the umbilical cord to electronic devices. I modeled how to prepare for the great out-of-doors and began shoveling sidewalks.

The snow was light and powdery, perfect for shoveling. Discontent with a narrow ribbon of path, I cut a wide swath--feeling richer for it. By the time I  reached the barn, Matthew joined me.

"What's up with the sheep?" I asked. "They're bawling over by the pasture. Do we still have apples?"
"They're big blocks of ice over there. The sheep eat what they can get." I went to investigate. Sure enough.


The sheep looked hopeful, bawling at random intervals. My good shepherd response motivated me to check their food supply at the barn. Out back was plenty of hay buried under snow. I went to the front of the barn and returned, pitchfork in hand, to open the encrusted bales.


"He-e-e-re, sheep!" I called, chortling the "here" sheep-style. They didn't respond. Pitchfork in hand I followed their trail around the machine shed and over to the orchard. With an "C'mon, girls," they recognized themselves and heeded my call, nearly running me over in their haste.

They did not like their hay. They were not at all impressed with my labor or thoughtfulness. They didn't even pause to sniff the overturned loaves. They stopped, regarded me stupidly, and would have returned to the empty pasture had I not tempted them further into the barn. C'est la vie. They would rather pick from the manure-littered floor than eat from bounty.


In any case, the walks and driveway are clear, the animals are fed--and the three girls who didn't go outside have cooked up highly creative plans that will take the next 2 weeks to accomplish! For my part, I was rewarded with the sight of our home, heavily laden with snow.


Welcome to our Winter Wonderland.