Driving out in the rain to feed the barreners and not-so-beastly ewe-lambs in the morning, I am reminded of the living dead as an old mule walks out out of the gloom giving her best George Romero-esque "moan....moan....moan....moan" as she senses breakfast is arriving. She is soon joined by another, then another, a slow relentless tide. Then suddenly Dario Argento takes over direction and the mists part to reveal streams of bleating ewe-lambs pouring across the valley, a hoard of ovine zombies howling and groaning as they converge. Not brains on their mind, but "cake....cake....cake....cake". I'm afraid I'm rather a traditionalist when it comes to zombies. I like them slow and shuffling.
Lambing has been progressing apace, with the usual dramas (such as midnight midwifery and getting the bike stuck in mud several times). Sonny has taken the opportunity of distracted humans to spend the last few weeks eating his dinner and then working his way through everyone else's, followed by a tasty placenta down in the yard. He has now been temporarily renamed Jabba the Pup, and if he has not lost weight again by his next vet check-up, Farmer Ian can take him as I cannot deal with the mortifying shame of a fat working collie.
Without further ado, some photos (which is what you all want anyway, not me whittering on...):
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| My favourite lamb |
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| "I'm too sexy for my mac, too sexy for my mac, to sexy by far" |
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| "Nothing to see here, move on" |
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| Yup, a bit muddy. Spring has not yet sprung. |
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| Farmer Ian's farming breakfast |
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| Ned is embarassed by the size of Sonny's bum |
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| Joey demanded a doleful cameo |
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