“It has been my life’s work,” I announced grandly and quite possibly pompously the other day to Greg, no other audience being available, “to advocate for the advancement of sheep.” He pointed out that this was patently untrue. If it was true, he said annoyingly, although quite possibly reasonably, I’d have started my life’s work a bit earlier, given that I had taken up this selfless work only seven years ago, the length of time we have been at Lush Places.
Nevertheless, I have now been awarded (by myself) the title of chairperson of the Brainy Association for the Advancement of Sheep, or BAAS for short.
People – you townies mostly, but not exclusively – believe that sheep are stupid. They are not. I once gave a speech on a topic of my choice to one of those service clubs which abound in rural parts.
There is a drink and a lunch and then a speech by a local luminary. It is not difficult to be a luminary in Masterton, but I was, still, delighted to have been regarded as one. Note that past tense; this reputation appears to have rather worn off – a consequence, no doubt, of the sightings of me about town looking more like a sheep farmer in desperate need of a good shearing than a luminary. Also, I am a really rotten public speaker.
I opened my speech – on all things sheep, despite knowing not a damn thing about them – by asking for those believing sheep to be stupid to raise their hands. In an audience that included many sheep farmers, a number of hands shot up. I directed them to leave by pointing, menacingly, to the door.
Sheep, at least our sheep, are smart. One of the things I am advocating for as the chairperson of BAAS is for a branch of Mensa for sheep. This cannot be more ridiculous than Mensa for humans. I once knew a fellow who claimed to be a member of Mensa. He was the biggest eejit ever.
My sheep are definitely Mensa material. They know that sheep dogs are dumber than them. They either ignore them or chase them. When Country Calendar came to film here at Lush Places, a drone captured images of the sheep chasing Miles’ sheep dog, Red.
Sheep recognise human faces. I know rams who, a year after they last saw me, rushed to the fence to say hello. It is possible that they also remember I always have biscuits in my pockets.
Miles the sheep farmer is now feeding out because, after a dry, dry autumn and early winter, the grass is scarce. Country types call this supplementary feed baleage; we call it stinkage. It smells like sheep farts.
Every day, the stinkage is placed inside a heavy, tall, cage-like structure with narrow bars designed to stop the sheep trampling the feed into the mud and to give everyone a fair go. Almost every day, there comes a desperate and insistent bleating from the paddock where the feeding cage sits. It is coming from a hogget whose tag identifies her as #105 and who, while trying to get more stinkage than everyone else, has shoved her head too far inside the cage and got it stuck.
The first time this happened, I released her and then texted Miles. He replied, “She is a repeat offender.” She is. I have to push her out. She is completely capable of doing this herself. All she needs to do is back up and pull. She’s a dingbat. We have named her Stupid Suzie, and even the chairperson of BAAS has to admit that not all our sheep are Mensa-worthy. Some sheep just really are stupid.
It is winter. Which means hellebores. Hellebores are very heaven. You cannot have a garden without hellebores. They are a contradiction of a plant, really, with their tough leathery leaves which sit around all year long, looking sulkily dull.
And now, at this time of the year, when almost all of the garden – except for the glowing white stars of the camellias Greg topiaries every year (the only possibly posh bit of our garden) – is dull and cut back and waiting for spring, we have these odd and glorious nodding, freckled, white and purple, maroon, prettily pink, pale green flowers atop those hardy leaves. They are a winter miracle.
