The sheep were not my idea

Coming full circle on our flock

Our small flock of merinos

The sheep were not my idea. 

But the dog was, and the other dog, and the other other dog. The cats which were supposed to be one cat but were in a cage together (brothers, the shelter said) were also my doing. The horse, the other horse, the pony? All me. 

But not the sheep. 

I’ve been called an “animal lover” before, and I suppose it mostly fits with the small exception that I refuse to accept the fact that animals die. 

A few years ago, a friend told me that his mother-in-law read somewhere that experiencing the death of a pet before the age of 8 was critically important to the psychological development of a child and so, she wondered, could she get them a dog? Their children were 3 and 1, so probably a senior dog? 

We laughed, but I was horrified. As someone who has experienced any number of pet and animal deaths through childhood and adolescence, including the death of my beloved childhood dog in my lap on the way to an emergency clinic on Christmas day, I can’t think of a single thing I’ve learned or gained from a pet dying. I even mourn the soft corpses of the mice my cats are so adept at killing (even as I have to, yet again, scrub mouse turds off of the shelves of my pantry).

I have made it my life’s mission to avoid animals that are notoriously death-prone. Rabbits have always been at the top of the list. Chickens and ducks (though I love them) for another. And, of course, sheep. 

There’s a saying about sheep: “Sheep are born looking for a place to die.” And so no, I was not entirely on board when my husband pitched sheep as the primary plan for turning our dormant family farm into a working one. I only agreed on the condition that I didn’t want to know anything about any dramas. If something bad happened, I didn’t want to know. “Make it go away,” I think, were my exact words.

I tried to keep my distance. Each time I went down to the barn (twice a day at least, to take care of my needy horses), I’d train my eyes straight ahead, avoiding glancing toward them in their pasture. But they watched me. I could see them, from the corner of my eye. At the first sight of me (or the dogs), they would stop what they were doing and line up, shoulder to shoulder to observe. They stood so still, so silent and watchful. They lured me in as surely as sirens in song.

I took to squatting outside their pasture and watching them watching me. They stamped their hooves a few times at the dogs, but they were otherwise deeply curious about me. When they did move away, they moved in near unison, bodies pressed against each other. They slept in a clump, grazed in a clump. They made the most satisfying sounds when grazing—an individual clipping of grass stalks as meditative as the gentle babbling of a brook. They made me quiet and still. They made me miss my sister.

I’ve developed a kinship with the ewes, who are weeks away from lambing. They are the first animals I’ve ever had who do not want anything from me in particular. They don’t want to be petted, or fed grain, or to be taken for a walk. They exist on another plane from the animals I’ve known this far and I really, really love them. And I accept whatever happens next.

Fly, our merino ram