The spirit was willing, but the flesh was 6 months pregnant. So instead of hunkering down and risking a hoof to the growing gut, a shearer was hired.
Look, someone is shearing my sheep and it’s not me!
Above is Eleanor being sheared. Below is her glorious fleece. She is my favourite of the five.
She is getting up there in age and I was hoping for her to be knocked up this year (a baby in every womb!) and asked the shearer if any of my ewes looked as if they might be ready to lamb. He looked at their empty flappy udders and said they seemed to be a ways off. Then our dear friend Guiness was shorn, and we discovered something surprising…
Dude’s got no balls.
After the utter hilarity wore off, I decided it was plenty okay with me–I can hardly get up from a chair right now, let alone lay down in the straw to shimmy towards a birthing sheep in distress so I can put my arm into her vagina. Next year we’ll worry about getting a ram, and next year we’ll all think to look for the crucial scrotal bits before loading him into the back of the truck. Next year, when the slimy fetus is outside of my womb, I’ll worry about the wombs of others. We’ll be awash in ruminant babies! Until then, my funny looking tribe maintains its status quo, and that is just dandy.