We’re running a dating agency on our farm at the moment. “Ladies, meet Rambo. Rambo, meet our 12 eligible ewes. Now, go to it old fella. Make some lamb love.”
We’ve borrowed my mother-in-law’s ram to spice things up in the paddocks. Apparently Rambo spits out twins every time. He certainly seems to be blessed in the, well, balls department.
It will be intriguing to see what Rambo makes of Harold, the fat old ewe we inherited from my nephew Sam. (Harold was Sam’s first calf club day pet. I don’t think Sam fully comprehended the difference between girls and boys at that point.)
Harold is a rather unique sheep, and not just because of her manly name. She actually thinks she’s a cow, as she’s spent her entire life hanging out with heifers. When she moved out here with us, we initially put her in with the other ewes, but she didn’t seem to speak sheep. Instead she sat by herself, as far away as possible from the rest of the flock, and baa-ed miserably until we took pity on her and opened the gate to the cow paddock instead.
A romantic weekend with Rambo could be just what Harold needs.