Well, that good-hearted man honoring his old friend was Paul Donnelly, now retired from development work at Pathfinder Village. I know Paul well and treasure his friendship, but somehow I typed his name as "Connelly." Sorry, Paul! You deserve better treatment. Blame it on failing cranial software.

Now, about the animals. Several of you have asked about that third ewe of ours-the one that was hanging fire in giving birth. Tess is a youngster, one of last year's ewes; but we expected at least a single lamb from her. Well, days went by, and then weeks; and then it turned out she wasn't even pregnant. She hadn't "caught," as the expression has it.

That fact raised a dilemma. Should we (1) hang onto Tess and try for breeding again in November-risking that something organically wrong would mean no births again next spring? Or should we (2) start thinking of her as potential lamb chops? We decided on the former. I'm pleased about that, and relieved, too.

Tess is a sturdy, strong-willed animal, and fun to work with. You may remember that she had glossy black wool at birth, and closely spaced, button-black eyes. She looked like a cuddly "Star Wars" ewok. When she developed a set of curved black horns, she looked like an ewok still, but one who'd signed up with Darth Vader.

Tess has been sheared now, and she looks even more dramatic. No more ewok. Her graceful lines, and especially those curving horns, make her now look like an African ibex, the kind that hungry lions so enjoy. And her wide, bright eyes add to the impression. Tess looks like an ibex that's just heard a deep growl in the underbrush.

Meanwhile, the two sets of black-wooled twins that survived from the other ewes' births are big and healthy. But they are causing confusion to Blue, our mixed breed, more-blue-heeler-than-not dog. The lambs are now about Blue's size; and as they gambol on the far side of the fence, he's sure they're other dogs that he should join in play. The lambs are curious about him, too. Sometimes one will come right up to the gate and touch noses with Blue through the bars.

The dog loves that, and of course wants all the more to get into the paddock with them. But, sadly, we can't allow it.

Blue has a great herding instinct, but it's totally untrained and unchecked.

The few times he's managed to get into the field, he's panicked the sheep and made them run, exciting him even more, This ended, on one occasion, with a sheep fleeing and Blue standing with a mouthful of wool.

With that said, however, he's a different dog from the nervous, cowed creature we brought home from the S.P.C.A. Blue had been treated very well there, certainly; but Lord knows what kind of treatment lay farther back in his past. Whatever the cause, he was very edgy, and he went into a panic if Anne and I were both out of his sight.

But months of quiet attention to him have made him a new dog. No more panic attacks, no more frenzied jumping. He's very much at home with us, and with Owen the cat, whose serene dignity has helped put him at ease. But a large dollop of credit also goes to Teresa Konopka of Kilmoreen Training Center. Teresa is Otsego County's own Dog Whisperer. Blue's (and our) three successive courses with her have done wonders for the dog and for us.

Another time I'll tell you about Anne's and my adventures with Blue in his classes, and recount all he learned in Basic Obedience, Advanced Obedience, and Agility Training. I can't imagine what still lies ahead in his studies. Juggling, perhaps, or simple card tricks.

Finally, a few words about another local species; all that rain made them number, it seems, in the millions.

I'm talking about mosquitoes. They swept in, wave after wave, just as we were saying good riddance to the black flies.

Our immediate concern was that upcoming wedding and its tent reception in our west field. Imagine all those guests flailing their arms, ducking under the table to slap at their ankles.

Not to worry. The bride's dad, an engineer, hauled a piece of technology all the way from Boston to stage a counterattack. It's a "Mosquito Magnet" and now stands out in our field like a squat, pot-bellied R2-D2, humming to itself and slaughtering mosquitoes.

The design is simple. A propane gas container (the pot belly) generates a cloud of carbon dioxide, which spreads thinly over the grass and into the abutting woods. Mosquitoes think the gas is the expelled breath of warm-blooded creatures. They hustle toward its source. There a small fan sucks them by the hundreds into a cheesecloth pouch. You could then take the pouch some miles away and release the contents into the wild. I don't.

So far the system has worked fine, and I'm out in the field a couple of time a day, checking progress. It's at risk of blood depletion every time, since clouds of mosquitoes circle the unit in holding patterns, waiting their turn to land. To check the cheesecloth bag, I have to do my own flailing of arms.

That little fan, the one that sucks them in, requires a long, thin cord that runs back to an adaptor plugged into an electrical socket. The cord has been the only problem so far. Last week, mowing on the tractor, I mindlessly chopped it to pieces. R2-D2 didn't scream. He just went dead.

I phoned the company for a replacement wire and opened with, "You're not going to believe what I did." The woman laughed and said, "Wait! Let me tell you. You ran over the cord with your mower. Don't worry," she added maternally. "This is the most common call I take."

That was comforting. I still felt stupid, but not alone.

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