I hate it. I hate hearing the mama’s crying for their babies. The long low bleats, crying out for the little kids they’ve been suckling. And the babies are in my front yard, responding to their mama’s cries, with high little baby voices. And I am sitting on the porch, trying desperatly to ignore the elephant in the room. I am the bad guy. I am the kidnapper. Yesterday, when I took Bluebell’s doeling from her, I thought I was being sneaky. Bluebell was busy in the feed room, filling up on alfalfa. So I snuck in the kid pen and got her. As I was almost out the gate, Bluebell showed up. She looked at me. Let out a few quizzical bleats and then rubbed up on my leg for some lovin’. Oh, I felt like a judas. Here she is loving on me, and I’m stealing her baby. Later that day, when I went out to the barn again, she was right there. Bleating and bleating and bleating “where is my baby?” I assured her that I am taking good care of the baby. She didn’t seem to care. She’ll forget soon . . . .