Sheep Story One
Nov. 23rd, 2002 05:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabid1stOkay, so I have joined the sheep masses and flocked to LiveJournal. And all because of Unikornkid and NautiBitz and the other fine people of BoB confounding me with peer pressure. Hmmm! So, this is where I go on with the updates concerning my oh, so boring Real Life.
Let's see...it seems there is an interest in a sheep story.
Way back in the day...I was a shepherdess.
Picture if you will a pastoral setting fluffy sheep punctuating the green sward, a tent pitched on a hill, and self, dressed in conservative butch-cut jeans and flannel shirt, hat low over my eyes, curled up by a cozy campfire sipping coffee and absently petting the black and white fur of my trusty Australian Sheepdog.
Now, cast that picture from your mind and laugh....long and loud.
'Cause the reality of the shepherding life is me and a ranch hand named Tim, both armed with a LONG STICK, wrestling smelly bundles of wet, sticky, vermin-infested wool on legs, through a series of swinging gates. Moving the ovine from pen to pen while slipping and sliding through the morass of sheep swill (poop and piddle and rotted food and mud) that had built up over the last twenty years to a depth of about 4 feet (5 on a humid day).
Because, you see, the sheep pens had NEVER been cleaned...not once in twenty long years. And the sheep had NEVER been out of the pens. They were born there, and they stayed there til the cast of fate sent them to market for the slaughter.
What a life, huh?
Well, let me tell you, I was outraged by this callous treatment of our furry brethren, and I hadn't been on the job more than a day or two when I marched right in to the manager's office and complained about the outrageous condition of those pens. I called them a "disgrace" and suggested P.E.T.A. might have something to say about the situation. The manager called me "spunky" and promptly handed me a shovel. He suggested I get to work on the twenty year backlog of sheep droppings before P.E.T.A. showed up to shut us down.
I took my shovel and marched straight back to Tim.
"We have to clean these pens," I informed him.
He looked at me for several beats and then drawled, "You're gonna need a bigger shovel."
Turns out we needed a backhoe.
An hour or so later when we dug the teeth of the backhoe just a bit too far into the Aegean Stable-like Compost, we hit a water main, sending a fountain of sheep slop 16 feet into the air.
After that, we each needed a fifth of bourbon and a long, hot bath.
I, often, think back fondly on Tim. I wonder where he is today...and if he ever got the smell of that impromptu sheep swill shower out of his clothes (or if he just burned 'em like I did mine).
Let's see...it seems there is an interest in a sheep story.
Way back in the day...I was a shepherdess.
Picture if you will a pastoral setting fluffy sheep punctuating the green sward, a tent pitched on a hill, and self, dressed in conservative butch-cut jeans and flannel shirt, hat low over my eyes, curled up by a cozy campfire sipping coffee and absently petting the black and white fur of my trusty Australian Sheepdog.
Now, cast that picture from your mind and laugh....long and loud.
'Cause the reality of the shepherding life is me and a ranch hand named Tim, both armed with a LONG STICK, wrestling smelly bundles of wet, sticky, vermin-infested wool on legs, through a series of swinging gates. Moving the ovine from pen to pen while slipping and sliding through the morass of sheep swill (poop and piddle and rotted food and mud) that had built up over the last twenty years to a depth of about 4 feet (5 on a humid day).
Because, you see, the sheep pens had NEVER been cleaned...not once in twenty long years. And the sheep had NEVER been out of the pens. They were born there, and they stayed there til the cast of fate sent them to market for the slaughter.
What a life, huh?
Well, let me tell you, I was outraged by this callous treatment of our furry brethren, and I hadn't been on the job more than a day or two when I marched right in to the manager's office and complained about the outrageous condition of those pens. I called them a "disgrace" and suggested P.E.T.A. might have something to say about the situation. The manager called me "spunky" and promptly handed me a shovel. He suggested I get to work on the twenty year backlog of sheep droppings before P.E.T.A. showed up to shut us down.
I took my shovel and marched straight back to Tim.
"We have to clean these pens," I informed him.
He looked at me for several beats and then drawled, "You're gonna need a bigger shovel."
Turns out we needed a backhoe.
An hour or so later when we dug the teeth of the backhoe just a bit too far into the Aegean Stable-like Compost, we hit a water main, sending a fountain of sheep slop 16 feet into the air.
After that, we each needed a fifth of bourbon and a long, hot bath.
I, often, think back fondly on Tim. I wonder where he is today...and if he ever got the smell of that impromptu sheep swill shower out of his clothes (or if he just burned 'em like I did mine).
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2002-11-23 05:59 pm (UTC)'Cause the reality of Shepherding is me and a ranch hand named Tim, both armed with a LONG STICK, wrestling smelly bundles of wet, sticky, vermin-infested wool on legs, through a series of swinging gates.
Awww.... poor sheep! Well, not really. My friend's husband has a degree in animal husbandry, and he tells me over and over that sheep are the dumbest fucking creatures on the planet. Literally. So, I don't really feel all that bad for them, although I do feel really bad for you having to clean up after them.