Hi, my name is 117. I’m getting on in years, so thanks for not photographing my udder.
I’m 704. I’m young. I’m a little skittish. In fact, when my babies are born, I plan to freak out.
I’m 703, and I’m hoping for a spinal blocker. Maybe some Valium or oxycontin. Or put me under and do a C section. Just get these blasted things out of me.
I call myself “Missing Ear Tag” because I refuse to be reduced to a number. I manage to rip out every tag those dang farmers put in my ear.
I’m 707, and sweet as can be.
I’m Orange 1. Orange? Everyone else has blue or green tags. I don’t know what happened that year. The farmers switched numbering systems and I was first in line. If you’ve read Sheepish, you know me as Black Girl. These farmers don’t name their sheep, so they don’t have much practice, but really–Black Girl? Just because I was all black as a lamb? Why not Monique, or Laura, or Jessica?
And I’m Helen. Back off. These blasted eggs can’t hatch soon enough. I’m tired of hanging out in this stupid box in the darkest corner of the barn, but it’s where I laid the eggs, so I’m stuck here.
Spring on Rising Moon Farm….everyone’s a little anxious about the impending babies, including me. Melissa has a full time, off-farm job now, which is making our checkbook very happy. But this means she won’t be around to help with lambing. If this strikes terror in your heart, it means you’ve been paying attention to who I am—I’ve made no secret of it in my memoirs.
So I have the sheep locked in the three-sided barn (with plenty of food and air and sunshine.) At the first sign of trouble, I’m calling the vet. I may not be able to deliver a lamb, but I can dial a phone!