Day 351: Oh, the memories this lovely lady brings back! For approximately five years between 1985 and 1990, I maintained two to eight sheep on our prairie property. Two acres of the land was grass pasture, so with that census (sheep are heavy grazers), I supplemented them with alfalfa hay and COB (a corn-oats-barley feed). They were sheared by a professional whose attempts to teach me the art failed miserably, and each year I retained some fleece for my own use and sold the rest to Pendleton Mills in Portland, or to a weaving supply shop in Seattle. Each ewe was allowed to lamb once, and then at eighteen months to two years of age, I turned my woollies into lamb-burger for the table.
At times, raising sheep was nightmarish with early lambings in downpours, attacks by dogs, being chased by an ill-tempered ram as I ran as fast as my feet could carry me down the length of the pasture, only narrowly missing being launched from behind by Bruce's intervention. He was watching and waiting at the gate and grabbed the black monster by the ears just as I passed the fenceline. But there were the joys of playing with twin babies, as sociable as puppies in their early months, and having four-legged lawn mowers to take care of one of my least favorite chores. For the most part, sheep take little care other than feeding, shearing and hoof-trimming, and for the few headaches incumbent with keeping them, the balance lays in their favour. I miss my sheepies!
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