WAFFLE THEN OFFAL

Maybe I should introduce myself first. I’m a retiree looking desperately for a life that decided on a tree-change and moved from the village of Sydney to the village of Linton. That’s right I’m not just a Blow-in but I’m a City-slicker as well. What makes it even worse is that I migrated from New South Wales.

But that part of the story has already been covered in another publication so I don’t know whether I should drag up all that rubbish again. If I have a loyal reader then you will have noticed the move and continue to read the column.

So here’s my story, I hope you like it. If not I have seen this column on the bottom of bird cages before so I shan’t be offended.




Never under-estimate the intelligence of sheep. They startle at the hop of a cricket and follow each other around like Lemmings but they have a rudimentary brain that immediately recognises that if it’s food you run towards it and if its shears you run away from it.

Only slightly larger than a squash ball, and once great for an old-fashioned meal (This might be one for the Pub Menu) the brain of a sheep actually can work things out. I discovered this with Maxine the hard way. Every time I tried to feed the Alpacas she would muscle her way in front of them and tuck into their rations.

I tried chasing her off to leave Dali and Panchun (a.k.a Dumb and Dumber) in peace only to find she would circle the yard with me chasing after her and re-enter the yard through the gate and straight back to their feed. Shut the gate? She wriggles under it. Hang the bucket up a Metre or so? She rears up on her hind legs and bumps the feed out with her nose. Try chasing her with a stick? Useless. A Shepherds crook? Failed. I looked more like a jogging Bishop huffing and puffing in circles? I swear that sheep have a sense of humour.

Even solid constructions like buildings have not seemed to phase her at all. She has worked out how to get her head, but not yet her rump, into the feed shed when I lock myself in there to load up the feed bucket. In fact I even think she has worked out how to open the bag too. I would expect that other ‘Shepherds’ have the same problem. How to get a sheep’s head out of a bucket short of bludgeoning them to death and converting them into Mutton Vindaloo.

I take my life in my hands every day to feed the animal family. I begin to wander whether I shouldn’t invest in one of those foam ‘Sumo Wrestling Suits’ to wear at feeding time. Then I worry that I might look too much like them.

Even Butch and Betty the twin lambs have learnt how to bully the others. Not even Mary their Mother can control them anymore. They have lost all respect for their elders, its ‘me me me’ all the time, they stay up late and wander the paddocks all bloody night, they’ve formed a gang ‘the hole in the fence mob’ with the four lambs next door, and they have begun to graffiti the front lawn with poo.

While Betty is happy with the magazine ‘Cleo’, Butch insists that I take out a subscription for him with ‘Ram Ram Thank You Ma’am’ the soft porn magazine.

I don’t know what’s coming next, maybe binge drinking. At what age does ‘puberty’ finish with lambs? Now when I mention that word sex comes back into the story.

It was only last week that I began to wander if some of my sheep, affectionately referred to as ‘Castrati’, having supposedly become neuter gender and thus disinterested in things romantic, are showing signs of courting towards Maxine.

The bleating when she wanders off, the little rubbings along her side, the little nuzzles under her tail, the foot stomping in front of her. They are not going head down to charge towards her concrete noggin they’re showing a preference to playing piggy-back. I know that nothing is going to come of it so I suppose I should just avert my eyes whenever it happens and let them get on with enjoying themselves.

GODFREY ZONE