This year's ram Natick, actually Snorri's father, arrived this afternoon.
He's not quite the ram that his son was, nowhere near the size, in fact. But this is fine by us because Snorri was a little more rammy of a ram than we cared to deal with. This guy weighs only a little more than our biggest ewes, but still has Snorri's genes so should produce those 45-50 pound fat lamb carcass weights we like, and hopefully leave all our fences right where they are.
Fence moving, when done by sheep, is not desirable. They generally don't do it right.
Natick-ram jumped right out of the pick-up truck by himself and after a short unplanned tour of the garden, found the paddock entrance and got right to work on Molly, the oldest of the four ewes he is penned with.
Age has its privileges, I guess, Miss Molly.
In other news, Aimee left for work on time this morning at 6.45 am, but shortly after called from college to tell me there was a wounded whitetail deer on the back road to Thorndike.
So I threw the 30-30 rifle in the truck and drove over there. Didn't need the gun, though. This doe was dead by the time I got to her, having bled out.
But that only meant that much of the meat would be in good shape for eating, having been thoroughly bled, not always the case with roadkill.
Having no time to cut up a deer this morning, with classes to teach eight to eleven am, I took a short tour of local Amish family homes and quickly found an Amishman who had time to butcher and who wanted a deer. Then I called the Maine Warden's Service and asked for a tag to be taken over.
Chris, our local Warden, was pleased to oblige, and so nothing went to waste. I would have liked to have had the venison myself, but there wasn't the time, and it was better that someone used it.
Knowing our Amish and their great efficiency with such things, it's probably already in cans, or in white butcher paper in the freezer section of a kerosene-powered refrigerator already.
Interestingly Aimee said several cars drove by the animal while still wounded in the middle of the road. And I saw quite a few drive by myself.
So funny to think of the different ways this wounded, and later dead, animal was seen by the various people that encountered it. I'm sure that the folks who drive by felt bad for it, but who was going to do anything?
One of them, of course, actually hit it, and then left.
Hit and run.
While to the Womerlippis, the Amish family, and a Maine Game Warden, this was food that would otherwise go to waste.
Whatever happened to rural skills and attitudes? Can you imagine an animal like that going to waste back in the days of the Great Farm pioneers?
I later told my teaching colleague and buddy Tim, a former Maine Warden, that my hunting season was already over, even before November 1st.
I'd already got my deer. All the hunting I need for one year.