As I've walked toward the shed this last week, I've listened closely for the bleat of new lambs. I told you last week that all three ewes are enormously pregnant, and Sophie is bulging to the point that she looks about to explode. I'm almost wary about entering the shed, for fear of being blown back out the door and into the manure heap.

The three present ewes are, alphabetically, Rachel, Sophie, and Tess. Over the years of raising sheep, I've been moving the names down through the letters, the better to keep track of their ages. I got started with three m's: Maggie, Maude, and Mary. They were the lamb producers for several years till Maude sickened and passed on to greener pastures.

For some reason I skipped "n," and the replacement for Maude was Olive. When Maggie died, we added Pearl. A "q" name gave us trouble. We ended up with Quenella, always called Nella. (She now lives with Sylvia, author of "Sylvia's Farm.") Then came Rachel, Sophie, and Tess.

Who will be next? Ursula, I guess, or maybe Ulphia; she was a hermit saint in eighth-century France. Or, drawing on mythology, there's Ushasin, daughter of Sky and sister of Night, and also Urdar, a Scandanavian giantess who stands for Fate. But I can't see myself striding through the fields, calling out any of those names. So I'm open to your suggestions.

Five months ago, the present alphabetical trio spent a month on the far side of Otsego Lake, up in the hills to the east of Glimmerglass Park. They were visiting the Harry and Ellen Levine's sheep, who in turn were entertaining a visiting rent-a-ram from the orthodox nuns' flock down in Otego. The ram was a feisty young yearling.

I worried about that ram. He was solidly built, all right, but he was short for a sheep. Our ewes and the Levines' were notably taller. Well, I needn't spell out the potential problem. The day we dropped off our ewes, that rent-a-ram ran right at them, with the right thing in mind. Poor guy. I felt like looking for a stepladder.

But the proof of his success is right out in my shed. Don't know how that ram did it, but he did. I'm minded of a friend's story about her elegant standard poodle that got compromised by a very low-slung, bandy-legged basset hound. As the poodle's owner said, "Love will find a way."

Well, love now has poor Sophie looking like a swollen cotton bale-no, two cotton bales. If she isn't standing dolefully outside, she's in the shed, lying down. When I enter the shed and pour grain into the trough, the other two mothers-to-be waddle right over to it. But Sophie just lies there, eyeing it, wondering if it's really worth the strain of getting up.

Yesterday she was out in the paddock, not standing, but sitting back on her haunches like a dog, head hanging. When I spoke to her, she gave me such a look of unqualified misery that I dropped to one knee and hugged her.

I think I've figured out what's going on. Urdar, that far-north goddess of Fate, knows that my Anne is away the second half of this week.

She knows I'll be tending dog, cat, chickens, and sheep alone. So probably, along about Friday night, Urdar will wave her wand, or whatever she does, and Sophie will shift into low gear. And, who knows? If Scandanavian giantesses enjoy a joke, maybe Rachel will, too. And maybe Tess.

That could mean as many as six lambs coming at once, since I think the vast Sophie is carrying triplets and Rachel, twins. Tess, a first-time mother, will almost surely have a single, but she'll be badly confused by what's happening and will need special attention. Tess is a brown sheep with shiny black eyes that peer out of a mask of dark wool. She looks like an Ewok out of "Star Wars," except that two curving black horns add a vaguely satanic touch. Think of an Ewok gone bad.

And of course, Urdar will have it fated for the births to come all at once, and at about two in the morning.

And I'll be alone out there, trying to comfort mothers, dry off lambs, set up pens in the sheep shed, hang heat lamps, and, for the new mothers, fill buckets with warm water laced with Karo Syrup. Oh, and at the peak of the crisis, Urdar will probably drop a tree on the transformer by Allison Road and cast the shed into darkness.

I've got to stop. I'm scaring myself. Chances are good, after all, that the births won't be simultaneous, won't complicate, won't take place in a blackout. But excuse me while I head down to the pantry. I think there's a bottle of Absolut there. Maybe a toast to Urdar the Giantess and to Fate would be prudent. And I'll add a short prayer to Saint Ulphia. Just hedging my bets, mind you...

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. He can be found on the web at JimAtwell.com.