Napoleon is Dead

Well the good news is that my hens started laying eggs . . . where I can find them. They had been laying under bushes where the dog would find them and happily devour them.

I was so excited to discover the eggs that I immediately ran over to my neighbors Roger and Therese to tell them.

The eggs were small, but my neighbor Therese said they will increase in size as the hens age.

I'm very sad to report that my little buck Napoleon died, a week and a day after we put the cast on him. It was a horrible death. He died of an infection that started in the broken leg. He died in a pool of his own blood from the internal hemorrhaging.

It was a surprisingly traumatic experience for me. Initially, I was so happy and excited that we were able to save him from the butcher's knife. He he did great with his cast for four days.

But ignoring what the veterinarian told me, I put him outside with his flock, thinking that the sunshine and being with his buddies would do him more good than being cooped up in a dark moist barn.

But then he developed diarrhea from the anti-biotics, and the flies descended on him. I now have very negative visceral reactions to flies.

I carried him into the barn and washed him down. He did fine for a day, I got him to eat a little bit of hay and drink water.

To my helpless horror, he started to go downhill and I spent three days cleaning up diarrhea, and worms and maggots.

My husband arrived the day before Napoleon died. I walked in the house the next morning, and told my husband that he had to put the lamb out of his misery because it was obvious Napoleon was bleeding to death. This was not a task that my husband wanted to undertake . . . especially when he was suffering from jet lag.

My husband finished his cup of coffee, but by the time he went out to look at Napoleon, the lamb was mercifully dead. My husband found a large grain sack and thoughtfully put the lamb in the bag so I wouldn't have to deal with him.

I called the man who picks up the dead animals for the departement, and thankfully, he arrived within an hour. If you remember, when Olympia died, I had to wait four days while she bloated in the summer heat and the insects attacked her . . . she was too large to bag.

My husband was the optimist, he ordered another buck for me and THREE more yearling ewes. And the farmer we bought them from was gracious and said he'd loan us a mature buck for Blanche and Soixante-Douze . . . since their clocks are ticking.

I don't know if the farmer will stick to the bargain about loaning us the mature buck . . . because just before we were leaving my husband told him about how Napoleon was injured . . . by our dog chasing him over the river embankment.

I could tell the farmer was taken aback. However, my friend who introduced us told me that, while he may have second thoughts, he'll bring the buck.

I spent a day last week with a sheep farmer who was lambing his 300 ewes. I was in heaven . . . surrounded by the ewes and their lambs that ranged from a few seconds old to two weeks old. I sat in the pen with the lambs that were triplets, and their mothers, and held the lambs . . . some of these triplets are supplimented with bottle feedings so they are very friendly.

When the lambs die, they throw them in a corner of the lambing shed. Then they bag them, and the man that collects the dead animals picks them up on his weekly round.

The farmer told me that he expects to lose six percent of the newborn lambs.

Life and death are always walking hand in hand.