Time Once Again . . .

For the shearing post, complete with photos*.

When we did this last year at this time, the ground was frozen and our shearer was all bundled up in a hat and sweatshirt. This year his sweater came off after the first sheep and he was literally dripping sweat by sheep four or so. It was warm. Imagine that.

Also, the sheep were significantly less pregnant, as A. held the ram out from his duties later than usual last fall to make sure there were no lambs being born while we were in Arizona for my sister's wedding. I'm sure the shearer appreciated having smaller sheep to work with.

And this is why we pay someone to do this. I mean, really. Who wants to stand like this for hours at a time embracing a smelly sheep? Not me. Not A., either.

Though A. did jump in at the last minute to clip all the sheep's hooves.

One of these things is not like the others . . .

The chickens came to inspect the proceedings. And one of the hens, presumably one who lays her egg in the shed the shearing was occurring in, kept coming back, no doubt thinking, "Come ON, you guys. Can't you hurry this up? I can't hold this egg all day!" Or maybe not. Chickens don't think much.

There are no photos of Cubby watching the shearing, mostly because he only watched for about five minutes before wandering away with the MiL, only to return occasionally demanding the hoof trimmers or the keys to the shearer's truck. Not joking. That kid has an instinct for the forbidden.

So that's that chore out of the way. Next up with the sheep: lambing, in about a month. Oh goody.

* But only photos of the beginning of the shearing, because after pulling off dung tags (just what they sound like, yes, and just as gross) and bagging up fourteen fleeces, my hands were in no fit state to be touching the camera. They were really soft, though. All that lanolin, you know.