With snow flying sideways, tears streaming down my cheeks, I hugged Dolly around her neck as the Vet shaved her jugular and injected pentobarbital.
Now add in the wind and it is cold inside. The living room is 64, the kitchen is 60.
It was the first time I had ever heard the alarm go off and I realized in an instant it was intended to scare an intruder out of his or her mind. It worked on me.
“Dogs can’t talk, but their DNA can.”
I thought, “this white plastic glacier is shrinking. Time is flying! The dark will be replaced by light. The subzero weather will end.”
As I get to the back door, Peg is standing there. I tell her about the rams. “Do you want to move them now?” she asked. Yes. But then she says, “is one of the sheep dead?” Now why would she ask that?
the suburban weenie in me still can’t navigate Vermont winter roads.
If anyone wants to order this year’s Savage Hart Farm shirt, let us know. $20/shirt, including shipping. We’ll take orders by cash, check (local) or PayPal.
A trip down to the neighbor’s barn to load 23 square bales in the back of the truck is further reminder that I’m out of shape.
Jack, our one year old rescue dog, sets the agenda for our weekends now. While we still tackle farm chores, picking a good hike to wear us and the dog out goes to the top of the list.