How are your counting skills, my lovelies? Probably better than a certain almost-four-year-old I know, who is convinced that eleven comes after six. I can sort of see the confusion: Eleven, seven . . . they rhyme.
Point is, it's time to start the lamb count. Yup. The first lamb of the season was born two days ago, so the current lamb count: One--a male. And eleven ewes left to deliver.
I do not have a photo of what is reportedly a very jolly black lamb. I say "reportedly" because I haven't even seen it myself yet. What? He's ALLLL the way (fifty yards) in the upper barn. And it's muddy out there. And I have a cold. Wah.
You will, perhaps, be more forgiving of this photo-less update, however, when I tell you what else we have hanging around that I also did not photograph. Literally hanging--in the shed--are the two lambs that will need to be cut up this weekend. I don't have pictures of them, either, but as they're significantly less cute than a newborn lamb, I'm sure you don't mind.
I also don't have pictures of last night's butchering. A. continued his bloody theme by butchering two random roosters given to us by a co-worker of the MiL's. This is the same woman from whom we got the asshole rooster last summer. She had three more roosters from eggs hatched in the spring, which is of course two too many, but she couldn't find anyone to take the extra chuffy two (IMAGINE THAT) and she couldn't bear to butcher them herself. Tired of the havoc (and injury) these roosters were creating in her otherwise peaceable flock, she hired out A. as a hit man. A hit man paid in free-range chicken. There are worse payments.
Works for us. We're almost out of chicken stock.
So A. skinned and gutted the roosters last night, and THEN he got to work skinning the raccoon he caught a couple of days ago.
Now aren't you glad I don't have pictures, after all?