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LJ Idol Entry #3 - Coprolite*
Nov. 4th, 2011 01:49 amIf you’ve heard this one before, feel free to start laughing at me now.
This is a story about fossilized sheep shit. Twenty years of the stuff and how I set out, with youthful idealism and zeal, to save thirty or more innocent little lambs from festering away in a bog of it.
Once upon a time I was a shepherdess. If you are picturing one of those ceramic figurines…me with a newborn lamb in my arms and a collie dog at my feet, perhaps…please allow me to slap you with some reality and otherwise disabuse you of all of your romantic notions. Shepherding isn’t picturesque. And commercial sheep keeping isn’t pastoral. Well, technically, it is…quite literally, if you can believe the dictionary.
pas•to•ral
[pas-ter-uh l, pah-ster-]
adjective
1.
having the simplicity, charm, serenity, or othercharacteristics generally attributed to rural
areas.
2.
pertaining to the country or to life in the country; rural;rustic.
3.
portraying or suggesting idyllically the life of shepherds or of the country, as a work of literature, art, or music:pastoral poetry; a pastoral symphony.
4.
of, pertaining to, or consisting of shepherds.
Of course, anyone who has read The Professor and the Madman knows half of those dictionary writing chaps were out of their minds. I certainly wouldn’t call anything pertaining to shepherding charming, serene or idyllic.
Shepherding in my experience is messy, tedious, backbreaking and thankless work. It is basically chasing sheep around, for hours on end, day in and day out. All of those stories about lost sheep exist because sheep excel at getting lost. They can get lost in a gas station restroom. They can get lost while being followed by Google Satellite tracking. They can get lost in an open air pen measuring thirty-feet across with only one exit. That’s why they need herding, while most other animals herd themselves.
And it was once my job to herd sheep. Armed only with a long stick and my supposedly superior intellect, I attempted to outwit, outplay and outlast two hundred lanolin-excreting, vermin-proliferating bundles of wool on legs. If you have never tried maneuvering a flock of sheep from pen to pen through a series of heavy iron gates and maze-like chutes, while simultaneously slipping and sliding in four to five feet of rotting sheep poo, count yourself blessed by the gods. These pens I speak of had been home to countless generations of sheep before I arrived on the scene.
And the pens had never been cleaned.
Let me repeat that! The pens had never been cleaned. Not once. Not in over twenty years. It was a point of pride for the farm manager. “These pens,” he told me, “Have never been cleaned. Because sheep shit is biodegradable.”
Maybe! But, trust me when I say, biodegrading is best admired from a distance. Up close it creates an odiferous swill with a crust of slippery stink. Furthermore, it is a breeding ground for all manner of infestations and infections. And our sheep were dropping newborn lambs into this quagmire. I was outraged by such callous treatment of our dumb chums. Sheep might be incredibly annoying, but they didn’t deserve to live in abject squalor. I was, also, by this time, mighty tired of slipping and falling into filth sixteen times a day.
So, I took a stand. I walked straight into my manager’s office and demanded something be done about the condition of the sheep pens. The farm manager handed me a shovel. I took the shovel to my coworker, Tim, and explained our moral obligations, little lambs counting on us, etc. Tim took my stand in stride. I liked that about Tim. And he, quite sensibly, went to find a backhoe.
We worked diligently on cleaning the Aegean stables most of that day and were feeling mighty proud of ourselves, heroes to the helpless lambs, when we hit a small snag. The blade of the backhoe struck a water main. There was a mighty rumble, followed by an awful pause. And then a fountain of fossilized (and, unfortunately, all too fresh) sheep shit shot twenty feet into the air, carrying along with it a bevy of nature’s own biodegraders--millipedes, roaches, worms and other dung eaters. Creepy, crawly crap showered down on Tim and me for what seemed like an eternity. We danced about. We cursed. We sputtered. And we retreated in defeat. The sheep watched us go. After a minute or two, the passing of time put all of our commotion out of their wooly minds. They advanced as a flock and started swilling down (what I have to believe was) some pretty shitty water from the farm’s fancy new fountain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*fossilized dung (usually the dinosaur kind, I believe). But I've never herded dinosaurs, so I am working with what I know.
This is my entry for The Real LJ Idol Entry #3. I would really appreciate a vote (or 46) if you have that within your power. But other very talented people have also entered. Find All Entries For This Topic HERE!
This is a story about fossilized sheep shit. Twenty years of the stuff and how I set out, with youthful idealism and zeal, to save thirty or more innocent little lambs from festering away in a bog of it.
Once upon a time I was a shepherdess. If you are picturing one of those ceramic figurines…me with a newborn lamb in my arms and a collie dog at my feet, perhaps…please allow me to slap you with some reality and otherwise disabuse you of all of your romantic notions. Shepherding isn’t picturesque. And commercial sheep keeping isn’t pastoral. Well, technically, it is…quite literally, if you can believe the dictionary.
pas•to•ral
[pas-ter-uh l, pah-ster-]
adjective
1.
having the simplicity, charm, serenity, or othercharacteristics generally attributed to rural
areas.
2.
pertaining to the country or to life in the country; rural;rustic.
3.
portraying or suggesting idyllically the life of shepherds or of the country, as a work of literature, art, or music:pastoral poetry; a pastoral symphony.
4.
of, pertaining to, or consisting of shepherds.
Of course, anyone who has read The Professor and the Madman knows half of those dictionary writing chaps were out of their minds. I certainly wouldn’t call anything pertaining to shepherding charming, serene or idyllic.
Shepherding in my experience is messy, tedious, backbreaking and thankless work. It is basically chasing sheep around, for hours on end, day in and day out. All of those stories about lost sheep exist because sheep excel at getting lost. They can get lost in a gas station restroom. They can get lost while being followed by Google Satellite tracking. They can get lost in an open air pen measuring thirty-feet across with only one exit. That’s why they need herding, while most other animals herd themselves.
And it was once my job to herd sheep. Armed only with a long stick and my supposedly superior intellect, I attempted to outwit, outplay and outlast two hundred lanolin-excreting, vermin-proliferating bundles of wool on legs. If you have never tried maneuvering a flock of sheep from pen to pen through a series of heavy iron gates and maze-like chutes, while simultaneously slipping and sliding in four to five feet of rotting sheep poo, count yourself blessed by the gods. These pens I speak of had been home to countless generations of sheep before I arrived on the scene.
And the pens had never been cleaned.
Let me repeat that! The pens had never been cleaned. Not once. Not in over twenty years. It was a point of pride for the farm manager. “These pens,” he told me, “Have never been cleaned. Because sheep shit is biodegradable.”
Maybe! But, trust me when I say, biodegrading is best admired from a distance. Up close it creates an odiferous swill with a crust of slippery stink. Furthermore, it is a breeding ground for all manner of infestations and infections. And our sheep were dropping newborn lambs into this quagmire. I was outraged by such callous treatment of our dumb chums. Sheep might be incredibly annoying, but they didn’t deserve to live in abject squalor. I was, also, by this time, mighty tired of slipping and falling into filth sixteen times a day.
So, I took a stand. I walked straight into my manager’s office and demanded something be done about the condition of the sheep pens. The farm manager handed me a shovel. I took the shovel to my coworker, Tim, and explained our moral obligations, little lambs counting on us, etc. Tim took my stand in stride. I liked that about Tim. And he, quite sensibly, went to find a backhoe.
We worked diligently on cleaning the Aegean stables most of that day and were feeling mighty proud of ourselves, heroes to the helpless lambs, when we hit a small snag. The blade of the backhoe struck a water main. There was a mighty rumble, followed by an awful pause. And then a fountain of fossilized (and, unfortunately, all too fresh) sheep shit shot twenty feet into the air, carrying along with it a bevy of nature’s own biodegraders--millipedes, roaches, worms and other dung eaters. Creepy, crawly crap showered down on Tim and me for what seemed like an eternity. We danced about. We cursed. We sputtered. And we retreated in defeat. The sheep watched us go. After a minute or two, the passing of time put all of our commotion out of their wooly minds. They advanced as a flock and started swilling down (what I have to believe was) some pretty shitty water from the farm’s fancy new fountain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*fossilized dung (usually the dinosaur kind, I believe). But I've never herded dinosaurs, so I am working with what I know.
This is my entry for The Real LJ Idol Entry #3. I would really appreciate a vote (or 46) if you have that within your power. But other very talented people have also entered. Find All Entries For This Topic HERE!
