It is a well-known fact among my sheep that the reason I don’t like them running around in the big field is because I am mean and heartless and it’s my life’s ambition to make them miserable. It has nothing to do with the fact that if they escape into the big field, I might come home from work to find Wee Willie with three fence posts worth of netting wrapped around his head. Nope. I’m just a mean, spoilsport ShepherdPerson.
He was so still when I first ran out there that I was afraid he’d strangled to death, until he heard me coming, sat up, and started glaring at me through all the layers of wire. Somehow he’d gotten it tangled all around his horns, face, and right foreleg without pulling any of it tight around his neck. Once I knew he wasn’t dead or dying, I couldn’t help laughing at the poor guy. He always gets himself into such improbable predicaments.
“Someway, somehow, I’m sure this must be your fault, EvilShepherdPerson!”
Will, I know your mother’s bloodline has a long family tradition towards tangling themselves in fences, but getting snarled up in three whole sections of netting, posts and all? I think you’re really trying too hard.
I tried for about 5 minutes to pry his head loose before giving up and cutting the fence apart to get him out. The fence was so twisted up I never would have gotten it straightened out anyway. He got up, shook his head a couple of times, then ran off, apparently none the worse except for a good coating of mud.
“You didn’t need to do that, I had everything under control!”
Of course he did. He always has things under control. It’s not like he’s ever gotten stuck by falling on his own horn or anything. I probably messed up some elaborate escape plan of his by interfering. Shame on me.
While Will and I wrestled around in the mud trying to separate fence from sheep, all the other sheep were holding a summit… on the summit of the ever-less-mountainous Mount Doom.
King Queen of the Hill is their all-time favorite Splendid Game, and this is the biggest “hill” they’ve ever had to play on. Even if it is rapidly shrinking.
“Don’t mind us, ShepherdPerson. We’re just standing up here minding our own business, ignoring the grass in favor of standing on a pile of gravel. Splendid Game, you know.”
I decided they’d had enough fun for the day and shuffled them all back into the field with nice, solid, non-tangly fencing. They did go, but not without some whining and sad-eyed looks from certain spoiled lambies.
“But I still want to play, Mommy!”
I know. I’m such a killjoy. I never let them have any fun. But I haven’t quite let any of them kill themselves yet, so I suppose I can deal with the pouty faces and dirty looks.