A few times a week now I’m asked how many sheep I have and to my great shame I must answer that I have no idea. It’s really not that I have so very many, it’s just that I don’t think of them (or anything at all, really) in terms of numbers. I still can’t give my kids’ birthdates at the doctor without thinking really hard, and there’s only four of them!

So, here’s an attempt to tally up the pasture population:

Polly had the first two lambs in March: Pearl and Opal, ewes.
Then went June, in March, as well: Frankie and Johnny, rams.
To Karla: Gabriel, a ram, and Gracie and Lily Hope, ewes.
To Cream: Hulaballo and Bradford, bucklings.
To Geraldine: Bambi and Conrad, bucklings.
To Lynette: Leo, a ram, and Lina, a ewe.
To Gabby: Tiny and Trumpet, bucklings.
And finally, pulling up the rear for a dramatic finish, Prissy had triplets: Princess, a ewe, and Pokey and Spot, rams:

Also in the flock are:
Rams: Cash, Steeplechase, Petey and Nappy
Bucks: Pepe, Congo and Oreo
Wethered (castrated) Sheep: Piglet, Pooh, Tigger and Augie
Wethered Goats: Franz and Dash
Yearling Angora Does: Mercy and Claire

Lost to Milk Fever prior to kidding: Little Bubbles the pretty buff doe.

How like writing an old-testament geneology! Except for the castrated parts. That brings my grand total to 25 sheep and 13 goats of various sorts. I must be absolutely insane. This is why I don’t count children or animals. Because now I realize I’ve got an awful lot of sheep to shear! (And a lot of kids to put through college.) Thank goodness most of the goats don’t require shearing.

Writing the births down is quite satisfying, though. I can see why the Israelites would enjoy recording how their nation grew, and why Caesar would want a census to count up how many subjects he might employ. I feel rich these days, but also heavy laden with the burden of shepherding so many lives. Today, baby Bradford has some kind of cold or allergy that gives him runny eyes and a cough and my most active escape artists had to be put with the horses because the fences in that pasture are better. But the horses won’t let them in the shelter, and it’s raining. These escape artists are goats who suffer when wet. I fed Bradford garlic and aloe in his evening bottle, and Shan and I dragged a big picnic table into the field for the goats to get under. But I’ll be wakened from sleep several times tonight puzzling out better solutions to these troubles in my dreams. I’d make a lousy President.