I love the aches in my body when I finally lay down to sleep. I relish in the burn of blisters and the scratch of calluses against soft sheets.
Glory, what a long day.
Personally, I think I did very well. I didn't threaten the vet student with bodily harm. I didn't flinch (much) when the vet started cutting on my baby. My llama. My Emerald.
Fifty-seven rabies shots yesterday. Eighteen blood tests. Two operations. Ten sheep sheared. I did very well, I believe.
When Laura started shearing, though, I wasn't prepared. The second lamb, and I almost lost it. I found myself having to take a step back, leave the barn for a minute, and remind myself that Sherman died in November, and this was no time to get all emotional about it.
Two lambs are Patrick's. They have none of the characteristics that Sherman's progeny have always had. Sherman's children have quirky horns, freckled coats, and, gengerally, don't mind too much when they're flipped and sheared.
I've spent years watching lambs be sheared. I know Sherman's.
I pointed the second lamb being sheared out to Ted, once I came back in the barn.
"We have to keep this one, Ted. Sher's one of Sherman's." He asked how I knew for sure, and I smiled, running my hand across her oily back. "She has freckles. Hundreds of thousands of freckles. They'll disappear when her wool grows in, but it's a trait Sherman passes on."
My llama is doing well. The zedonk is on the road to recovery. Every animal in the barnyard has been vaccinated for rabies. It's a weight off our shoulders for another year.
Before Sherman left us, he made sure to leave us with three beautiful reminders. Now all they need are names.