6.30am is Little Dodd's first bottle of Wonderlamb of the day...
This morning the sun was shining, and the air was still.
At the sound of the 'hen gate' (attempts to keep the hens out of the garden) Little Dodd is bleating vigorously.
At the sound of the 'hen gate' (attempts to keep the hens out of the garden) Little Dodd is bleating vigorously.
He does look better this week, and he butts my knees in his desperation to get that milk, until I can get him latched onto the bottle.
Then he settles down to suck like a curly black suction pump.
The vivid whistling of oystercatchers nesting at the lochans below us resonates across the hills. Little Dodd's tail batters my wellies.
One of the other lambs approaches us, eyes wide with her struggle between curiosity and instinctive fear.
One of the other lambs approaches us, eyes wide with her struggle between curiosity and instinctive fear.
