It’s 8:02pm, Mar 1, and I’m headed back to the barn. Aggie ate her sweet feed at 5, but when I checked at 6, she was staring and pawing a little. I piled fresh dry straw in the coziest corner, which she and Edie promptly began eating. Jess spelled me for supper, and didn’t see much activity. I watched till 7:30 and, when nothing happened, went in and did the dishes.
Now I step inside, light the lantern and hear “Ma-a-a-!” and “Ma-a-a-a!” Before logic can say, “Those must be Edie’s,” my ears say, “Those were newborn bleats. Two.”
Aggie had moved to the lowest, dampest, draftiest corner of the stall, pawed away the waste hay and dropped (we always say that but in this case it’s the only word that really applies) twins in the old floor dirt. And she’s diligently cleaning them.
I’m sure there are 3, so Jess and I spend another 3 or 4 hours checking and worrying. Nope: just two, buck & doe, big and lively, a relief. One of Jonquil’s December triplets was sold, and she is starting to feed up. But I hated to see another doe that gaunt and harried-looking.