Matilda*, the Romney ewe from my friend Jenny Hughes, bore my first set of live twins this morning.

And the second one…

The obligatory complication was that I found Matilda on her back with her feet in the air minutes after her first lamb was born.  In shepherd-speak, this is called a “cast ewe,” roughly translated as “the bloody sheep’s gonna die if you don’t find her and flip her back over.”  I did, and she immediately switched into professional mother mode, cleaning and fussing over the crying lamb at her side.  I got her and the first lamb into a jug, and the second one was born without any drama about 30 minutes later.  All three are doing well this evening.

I’m not sure how the ewe ended up on her back, except that Romneys and other stocky breeds are somewhat prone to this indignity.  I’m reluctant to imagine how the day would have turned out if I had not been around to assist her.  When Bill Fosher heard about my latest difficulty, he assured me that if sheep were easy, everyone would be raising them.

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*Matilda came with her name.  I haven’t named any of the others and probably won’t, but I’m a bit torn about this.  On one hand, a name carries the implication of familiarity and respect that I’ve certainly developed with some of the flock.  But it deepens the cognitive dissonance when sheep go off to freezer camp.