Counting Sheep

There is a hole in Pemberley Farm today. 

It is a little quieter, a little less stately, and feels a bit less governed. 

Our Georgiana died. 

Long-time readers will know Georgiana as our Queen ewe. She was the matriarch who insisted on being included in all social events, appeared to require consultation on all flock matters, and never hesitated to make her opinions known to any member of any species.  

She instructed us on the proper way to give scritches. She decided we were acceptable companions and led the way for the rest of the flock to trust us to care for them and be near them.  

She was bossy, loud, nosy, and dear.  

In her last days, she blessed me with her friendliest nose rubs, body leans, cheek presses, and long eye-to-eye moments, 

Pemberley is better for her having been here.  

I miss her terribly. 

Kiersten J