Ten years ago, if someone had said to me that trying to wrestle down a fat little lamb would be just another part of my day, I would have snorted my coffee. The wrong way. Yet, last night, after my hour commute home in the gloaming light, feeding the dogs, finding my measly egg (as in singular - what the heck are the chickens doing all day?), I girded myself with a canister of anti-lice powder, a coffee can of shepherd's mix and a half bale of hay, and sauntered down to the sheep paddock. I swear that sheep are like cats - they can read my body language as easily as I can read a map. Hmm. Maybe that's not a good analogy. As easily as I can down a bag of Cape Cod 40% Less Fat Potato Chips.
These are the times when I am glad there are no witnesses - human, that is. I had the can of feed in one hand and the powder canister shoved in the waistband of my jeans, so that I had a free hand to unlatch my convoluted gate system. The object of my powdering - Banyan, son of Coco(nut) the Crazy - was already giving me the hairy eyeball. He used to be such a sweetie-pie. But, then came the wethering process. I think that pushed him over the edge, into the crazy genetic soup of his likewise wacky mother. I did manage to go through my equally convoluted feeding process without raising his suspicions and, while his head was down, I grabbed his rear leg. What then ensued was a wild, writhing, bucking, wiggling ten minutes until I managed to also get hold of his opposite front leg and pin him to the ground in a full Nelson. Keep in mind that I am four times (or more) as big as he is. In the end, we were both panting and I had gotten as much of an anti-lice dousing on me as I had on him. Maybe more. After we both recovered, I stood him back up on his little sheep legs and off he tottered to tell Maaaaama all about it.
I went inside, made a cup of lemongrass ginger tea and took a shower. The end.