Sunday morning awoke in golden light. The sun’s rays gently caressed the earth, exuding a scent of peace. After a long week of illness, I longed simply to breathe—to inhale the silence, embrace the sun, and merge with nature. From the barn came the sounds of life, warm, soft, and welcoming. The sheep called out, the goats dozed, and Rozina’s two kids, born just a week ago, bounced playfully in their happy little animal world.
The morning passed in serene harmony, but the afternoon brought unexpected visitors. Like a northern wind, they arrived—Aleš and Manja, with grateful laughter and a Carniolan accent, accompanied by the light in their children’s eyes—Daša and Lenart. We stepped into the barn, a sanctuary of simple life, where joy has been taking root these past days. The children, in hushed awe, stroked the goats as everything else unfolded along its usual path.
And then—a moment. That breath when everything stops.
The veteran, the grand dame of our barn, Pika. Her eyes gazed into the distance, her body began speaking the language of nature—strain, waves of pain, bringing forth new life. And as if time had condensed into a single fragment of eternity—she birthed the first. Tiny, barely visible, like a whisper. “Too small,” I thought. But before I could catch my breath, Pika strained again. Another one. My heart leaped. “We’ll have two,” I whispered into the wind of this miracle. But fate had not yet spoken its final word. A third time, Pika pushed—and a third kid fell to the ground. Triplets! The visitors’ eyes widened in disbelief, breath held still—we had witnessed a miracle.
But joy quickly mingled with concern. The firstborn—too weak, too fragile. As the family said their goodbyes, Uroš and I prepared for battle. First, we called upon a kind soul, Urška, who will one day be a true veterinarian. With tenderness and care, we carried all three kids into the house, into the soft warmth by the stove. Urška advised additional help. A veterinarian arrived like a guardian angel, tending to Pika and her three little fighters. A warm resting place was found for Pika as well. Our fearless mother lay exhausted, but in her eyes, we all saw the same truth—the fight was far from over.
The night was long. The warmth of the fire, the scent of hay, the gentle hands cradling the newborns. Every sip of colostrum was a victory, every flick of a tiny tail a sign of hope. The younger two regained strength within hours, but the firstborn—she still walks the edge. Her heart beats quietly, yet fiercely. We fight on.
And you, dear readers, keep your fingers crossed. May our three-leafed clover bloom into a life full of sun and green pastures. Follow our blog and be part of this story, where nature and the heart unite as one.
In the photos: Daša and Lenart with Pat and Mat. (Photo—Dad Aleš)
