Liam must truly be Irish, he seems to relish a good fight, he doesn’t quit, he seems indestructible,  and he has a bit of a mischievous gleam in his eye. I was wise to name him after Liam Neeson, I think, it has perhaps come to define him. I confess that when I saw him lying on his side in the Pole Barn yesterday, I feared the worst.

Sick sheep do not often get well, and the poor creature radiated pain and discomfort, in his breathing, eyes and stance. Dr. Jacob Weinstein did a wonderful job of quickly diagnosing Liam and treating him with pain-killers, antibiotics and a chest wrap. Deb Foster came over this morning to hold Liam gently while I gave him another pain-killer, I was happy to see him up on his feet, nursing and curiously exploring the barn stall – he seemed a bit bored, ready to get out.

I went to the barn a few times last night to make sure he was nursing, he seemed groggier and more tentative.

Not yet, pal, eight more days to go. I felt good about his prospects this morning, I have the feeling we are over the hill, although you never really know.

I am glad I did not have to tell Maria – or any of you, for that matter – that Liam was gone. Keeping my fingers crossed, I think it’s going to work out. Now we have to figure out why the donkeys went after him.