Nine is the number of kits that Camille, our Satin Angora, gave birth to last night.
Nine is the number of little bodies I pulled out of her cage this morning. She chose to have the babies everywhere but in her nest, and they all froze to death.
It is a huge loss.
Three is the number of bunny babies that awaited me when I was done with my chores for their feeding. Three is the number of babies that Daphne didn't want, and the number of babies who live in the house and are cared for by me.
Three is the number of little bunny babies who climb up into my lap without a moment's pause. Who will curl into the crook of an arm to sleep. Who fight over who gets to drink from the syringe first, even though they eat nibbles all day long from the pellet tray.
They are a joy. We have named them Collette, who is a Black Tort, just like Daddy. Roy, who is just black, and Pickle, who is black as well. Pickle is the super special one--the one who will follow me anywhere, the first to jump into my lap or hand just to say "hi". She is currently perched on my arm as I type. We are together often.
The three help me feel better about the nine.
Five is the number of goat kids I got to snuzzle today when I went to help a new friend out with her goats. Two of the littles were only a week old. I had forgotten how small babies can be, especially after looking at my 115 pound "babies" all the time.
One was the number of baby goats who sucked on my finger for a while and fell asleep, like she'd just eaten a good meal. We had never met, but she trusted me implicitly.
The one made me feel better about everything.