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We had just checked on the sheep the past evening, always going out to them at least once a day to check on health and herd. She had been fine at last check. Peep was one of the few “named” animals in the herd, having been given that sobriquet when she was purchased as a little lamb with a mate “Bo” for a girlfriend’s birthday. The two little lambs lived in a dog cage and grew into adult sheep that no one wanted anymore. Peep then came to our farm, and bore more than a dozen offspring over eight years. She also carried the number tag one in her ear signifying that she was the herd dame, and the first female we had purchased when we started out on the farm. I found her in the field on her side, lifeless. Without going into macabre descriptions of the evidence, it was apparent that she had gone into premature labor (about a full month or more too soon), and likely carrying triplets, suffered a miscarriage that could only have been averted through surgical procedure. Judging from the evidence, it had happened in the early morning hours when everyone was asleep, including the herd dog. In her present state, she weighed over one hundred pounds. In addition to suffering the loss on an emotional level, it fell to me to take care of the remains, an additional physical and emotional burden. It took every bit of two hours to make all preparations and move the body, all in a driving sleet and rain storm which cropped up in the middle of the work. I think God takes the dead into him immediately, leaving the living to clean up the mess. I don’t think I