There are times (like now) when you can have enough of sheep. Two ewes are left to lamb, one of which is more a shipping container than a mere box of frogs. It is completely wild, and has no concept that the sheep is a domesticated animal, bred for centuries to be farmed. No. This sheep is a wolf, a piranha, and as I discovered this morning, a battering (ewe) ram.
My left tit (ok, TMI) is all purple bruise where this particular nutter took a flying leap at me, having given itself a considerable run up first, and launched into me full tilt like a bowling ball at a skittle. I managed to stand my ground, but only just, and the pain!
I know that a flock can have its flighty moments, but I've never known anything quite like this, particular at lambing time when my close and constant presence is at its most acceptable. The old girls positively welcome me helping out if they are having a little trouble and will come up to me if I'm sat on my stool observing, to give my hand a sniff. They crowd round me when I have a bucket of feed, and just a glance of me has them trotting over to see if there might be something good on offer. But not the flying ewe. I hope this one lambs on her own and needs no assistance; the consequences of having to help her could mean serious injury... to me!
So, to take my mind off sheepy things, and in line with the remaining quality of brain I have left, I have buried myself in fluff. I'm not recommending the Jilly Cooper romances for anything other than helping you drift off to sleep on those occasions when counting sheep is more likely to send you into an anti-farming frenzy, but Bella, Imogen, Prudence, Emily, Harriet and Octavia, although not bearing any literary examination, have kept my head quiet, a fictional morphine if you will, over the last couple of weeks. Jilly makes me chortle. It may be hogwash, but sometimes a hog can help you forget a sheep, bruises or no bruises.