Falling in love...

Yesterday, the husband decided to take me on a long walk.  You'll remember how last week I got hopelessly lost, and had to turn back with the two furballs rather than run the risk of ending up in another timezone.  The husband, who on occasion has been known to pedal his way around the countryside pretending to be some weekend warrior, assured me that he knew the loop I should have taken, and that he would show me the way.

We had a great walk, and the route has been put down into my 'good walk' brain file - especially as there were loads of 'footpath' signs reducing the chances of me getting lost.

But a mile from home, we had to cross a field full of sheep and lambs, and as the husband helped me and the boys over the stile, he suddenly said, 'You're not going to like this'.  Looking towards where he was pointing, there were two scraps of wool lying in the field.  One was obviously dead, but the other was still alive, although unable to get up.  The husband, ever the practical one, suggested that we should leave the lamb there, and call the farmer, who is a friend of ours, and tell him where the lamb was.  Well I wasn't having that.  The dead lamb was already providing several creatures up the food chain an unexpected feast, and my lamb (see how quickly I claimed it as my own) was looking at the Red Kites circling as if to say, 'it's just a matter of time'...

Whipping my coat off, I wrapped the tiny scrap up and cuddled it close to me for warmth.  You know that newborns think that the first animal they see is their mum?  Well, this little chap spent the next fifteen minutes suckling at my neck, and looking at me like I was the best thing since sliced bread.  I know it's been a long time since I had my babies, but holding this tiny thing was just fantastic, and those fifteen minutes are right up there with some of the best things I have ever experienced.  The husband had called the farmer while I was slowly falling in love, and when he turned up, I reluctantly handed the little chap over.

'We could have kept him', I said to the husband as we continued our walk across the field.  'I'm sure the furballs would have loved to have a mobile woolly blanket as a best friend'.  At this point, I was now carrying my coat rather gingerly as the lamb had done what all babies do when left to their own devices.  Reg was rather taken with the baby lamb smell, and was trying to hump the coat, eventually contenting himself with sitting on it and sucking the sleeve while I dragged him along.

Still pining for the little woolly head snuggled under my chin, I said to the husband that another friend of mine, who gets abandoned lambs as part of her job as farmer's wife, puts them in her Aga to keep them warm.

'Well, I suppose that's where they're going to end up anyway', said the husband.

And there was me, imagining my little chap gamboling in the spring sunshine, marvelling at the lovely lady who'd rescued him.  There might even have been a time when we were walking through that field again, and on recognising me, he would have run towards me, shouting 'Ma-ma-ma-ma in his bleaty voice...

Unlikely, I know.  But one thing is for sure.

Lamb is off the menu for the foreseeable future...


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