WhatFinger


Sheep, Lambs, Flashmobs

Faux Farms: Lambtics



Of all the dreams from childhood, of sailing the seas and steering the stars, never once did I think I’d be a sheepherder. Shows what I know. More to the point, I would never have believed I’d enjoy it, but the truth is that I do. In fact, of several interesting occupations ranging from journalist to mariner (and construction worker), I’d have to say that the small-scale sheep ranching I’ve done for going on 2 years now is possibly the most satisfying work in my history, especially the lambing.
For one thing, they’re hilarious. They bounce and bound, launching themselves flat-footed from either a dead run or a standstill and almost levitating in the air with their chins held high with joy. And when they land sometimes they just freeze and look at you looking at them or they just snap right into another bounce, never seeming even to bend their knees (if sheep even have knees!). They don’t seem to do this when they’re scared or angry, not that a 9 pound baby ram’s anger is anything to get in a twist about, but just for the fun of it. Theirs is the appreciation of life in its raw form, the pleasure of just being there and being young and leaping for joy like an idiot. I feel pretty comfortable around you folks, so I don’t mind throwing a little Bible in there now and then, because a good shepherd does indeed know his flock, and his flock knows his voice. And he will of course leave the 99 to find the one, and there’s always at least one. What my neighbors must think, should my voice carry on a cold day, hearing me “BAAAA!!!” as loud as I can to my meandering flock, undoubtedly chewing that far greener grass on my neighbor’s land instead of my own. And one gets smarter about these things, about a lot of things actually from good gloves and socks to tipping a big hay bale onto a tilt trailer, and long ago I figured out the old “rattling corn in a tin pale” trick. And then they come a-running.

Support Canada Free Press


To see my many ladies and their little ones (there’s basically a pre-school here in the middle of winter) come charging through the gate, hooves chomping up mud and muck, their round-barrel and auction-ready bodies heaving with exertion, may be the funniest thing I’ve seen since that puppy chased a rooster. They cut around the corner post, flowing like only a flock of sheep does, and leaving their Dorper hair in clumps on the woven wire fence, each bellowing their hunger in a unique voice that I probably hear in my sleep. And then, the feeding frenzy kicks in. The farm runs well these days, chores done efficiently and smart, but I still have to segregate my prim and haughty alpaca gals from the rest of those baser animals, or else they spit all over the barn. But when the sheep return from Wanda’s place or Russ’s place or the Colhour’s, wherever they happened to knock my ancient fencing down for the day, they turn into an instant mob. Have you seen those videos of teenagers in a “flash mob”, either on the news or on YouTube? Well, that’s what the sheep are like only they have less hair and fewer piercings. They knock the feed bucket out of your hand, they bawl and bray like angry mules, they bump you and stomp you and basically annoy you to the point of breaking several laws against animal cruelty, until one dumps the feed in disgust and runs for one’s life. Savages, a proper Englishman would say, the whole bloody lot of them. But to see the little ones come into the world, to see the burdened mother finally bring forth life with all its travails, is truly a miracle worth watching, and one that I never tire of. No, I’m lying. It got old a long time ago. Sheep make such good moms that when they’re healthy and happy, nature takes her course. So instead of grabbing the video camera, bringing hot water and fresh linen and calling Channel 9, it’s more like: “Oh look, honey. Another baby.” It’s still a joy, but we don’t throw a shower or anything. Well, not anymore. And life rolls inexorably on. In my spiritual frame of mind I hope that you all will join me in praying for our land, our country, our leaders and for a good dose of moisture. As always, thanks for reading.


View Comments

S. Daily Warren -- Bio and Archives

Faux Farms: A chronicle of a city boy’s adventure in the country, by S. Daily Warren

 


Sponsored