My sister needs a red riding hood.

Her name is not Mary.

Lambing season happens when spring should also happen, but spring is generally quite late.

And this has been a year of endless ice and winter storms; spring is nowhere to be seen. Ending up with bottle-fed lambs is not uncommon, and such is the case for my sister.

My sister began sharing Snapchats of the little lamb she had in a plastic tote inside the house. Then at her shop. Then in the front seat of her truck, still in the tote, as they were going through a carwash, with her dog popping its head into view.

Her dog is a mini-blue heeler, and looks like a small wolf.

A small wolf who has stolen her chicken nuggets when she got out of the car for a moment, licked the whipped cream off her frappe when she turned her back, and hopes for treats from any drive through window they come across.

“I love that you're driving around town like a crazy lady with a little lamb in a plastic tote and a miniature wolf in the backseat, hoping for a pup cup,” I joked.

Randomly, she’ll send photos of the quadruplets, the twins, and the traveling tote lamb that went to work, to the bank, to weaving class, and back to the farm. The dogs, the cat, and the lamb all gathered in the living room while they watch TV.

“Did you give it a name?” I asked.

“I did.”

You always get nervous when you name an animal; it’s like putting a red shirt on a Star Trek character.

Everywhere that my sister went, the lamb is sure to go.