Sheep Shots

Day 344: I miss having sheep. I don't miss the cold nights in the lambing shed, the annual search for a shearer willing to travel for the few dollars he could earn shearing four or five animals. I don't miss trimming hooves, wormings, stitching up wethers savaged by neighbour dogs. But I do kinda miss playing chase with the ewes and the sweet smell of the milky breath of a lamb fresh off the teat. I don't miss the ticks and keds, but I miss the touch of soft wool in my fingers when the first fleeces were rolled and bagged, and the feel of natural lanolin conditioning my rough hands. I miss...forgive me...lamb burger and mutton stews, but I do not miss transporting Ivy and Cindy and Dacron and Orlon to the slaughterhouse, nor driving away to leave them to the fate for which I'd reared them, fighting down emotions no person who raises livestock can allow themselves to own. Every now and then (especially at Fair time), I think, "I should get a sheep, save me mowing the lawn," and then reason kicks in. In truth, it's not having sheep I miss. It's the idea of having sheep, perfect sheep, romanticized sheep. Why, with that logic, I could enjoy thousands of woollies! Nah, I'll just visit them at the Fair.