Strength can come from unexpected places

At this point, the entire family portion of our family farm is on shifts to feed the baby, every two hours. He drinks without enthusiasm from a bottle, and rarely drinks very much. We hope that he's doing this because he's getting enough from mom and regards us as an unwelcome barrier to a good nights sleep. Unfortunately, the next day he's lost seven tenths of a pound, putting him below his birth weight.

This still isn't a cause for panic...something is going wrong, but he is healthy looking (he is moving around, his coat is still of the most glorious softness, and he is actively trying to resist us grabbing him). We've bought a bottle baby not too far into the past raised on goat's milk diluted with whole milk, and though our vet didn't recommend anything other than whole milk, the baby we bought is positively chunky off that mixture (and never had any problems with the richness of the milk). Given his behaviour, we figure he considers the milk we're giving him unpalatable, and the Alpaca Field Manual suggests goat's milk more closely mirrors camelid milk in calories and fat content. While we're wary of making too many dramatic changes in his diet, we try the new mixture.

He eats with gusto. The next day he gains two tenths of a pound, and begins moving around the small "medical stall" we've got him and mom in. The day after, he gains six tenths of a pound, putting him above his birth weight. Each day he gains a little more weight, and each day he looks a little stronger. We risk letting him out of the stall (our concern was the mother walking him around the field, and other babies playing a little too rough), and he fairs well, gaining even more weight. Soon, he is running for short bursts. We ease our shifts to allow for him (and us!) to sleep longer at night, and we notice he is beginning to stand fully, legs straight and unshaking.

He regains his vision; most likely initially lost from an in utero virus. He is gentle and quiet, but playful, and at one point we see him mischeviously pushing his mother around by jumping and shoving her. He may as well be trying to push our barn around for their relative sizes, but his mother permits him to move her to a different feeder. The other babies accept him into their little gang, though he rarely runs with them when they spring across the fields, and his neck-wrestling is almost comical in its gentleness. When he sees us now, he totters over at an easy pace to check if we're feeding him. He is not clever, he does not eye us with the excited suspician of the other babies (a sometimes valuable trait--you don't necessarily want a mob of friendly farm animals as much as you want a manageable herd), he regards us and strangers alike (like my friend in the picture) with simplicity and curiousity. It occurs to me that despite all his weaknesses, he radiates a kind of strength, like water. On a whim, we've named him Master Po.