Yesterday was miserable with sleet driven in front of a stiff wind, but Friday was clear and cold and I was able to finish mucking the sheep stall. It had finally occurred to me to use a pickaxe to loosen the two-foot layers, which sped up the process considerably.
While I pounded and heaved at the steaming pile, the animals lay outside, luxuriating in the weak spring sun. Though it was only 30° F, you could see their contentment as they soaked up the rays.
Old man Birch rolled in the dirt first, for the mud-mask-at-the-spa effect.
Moxie and Duke, my Jersey kids.
Katika, seven months pregnant and enjoying the benefit of a black coat.
Sheep and lambs.
Because it was actually still cold enough to see your breath, snuggling with mama felt good to the babies. It’s hard to believe that in a month the world will have greened up and they’ll all be out at pasture at Betty’s.
I was staggering by the time I finished the stall, but the only real damage done was to my hands. Work gloves don’t fit me; women’s are too short in the fingers and men’s too wide and floppy, so I always tape my hands against blisters. This last day I was tired and in a hurry and I simply wound layers of duct-tape over my skin. When I ripped it off to cook supper, I also ripped off a strip of flesh across the back of my hand. Yikes! A bad ow-ie.
Today I am headed to the airport to pick up DH, and then the two of us drive to Massachusetts for an overnight education conference where I shall wear a dress and heels and attempt to look like the proper wife of a headmaster. I am trying to think of a creditable explanation for a hand that looks like raw meat.
Perhaps I should simply say mysteriously, “Deep bedding.”