Last evening Paul came in from a walk with the dogs saying he heard a lot of coyote commotion. I recognize that the time to worry about coyote activity is not when they are barking and howling but rather when they are silent...however, I quickly put on my barn jacket, muck boots, slapped on my headlamp and headed out to the paddock. Both Sam and Bronte charged along beside me sensing the possibility of excitement. They immediately picked up on the strange sounds and smells and raced off into the darkness barking, leaving me to finish crunching along the path to the barn alone.
I swung open the door and flipped on the light. Mrs. Chubbers lifted her head at the creak of the door and came lumbering in to greet me. For the past few weeks I have had to sneak some Meloxicam into a handful of grain as she was suffering from a bit of a limp. It took all of one day for her to recognize that when I appeared there was grain to be had. Although she is properly healed, I’m the one having trouble breaking this evening habit. It is the expectant head lift and the charge in to see me. My brain knows that it really isn’t me, but the golden handful of grain, that lures her in - but how can I resist such adoration? I’ve had teenagers: even false adoration is better than none.
I fluff up some bedding with my fork, check that the heater is keeping the water from freezing and make sure that the feeder has hay in it for the cold night ahead. Then I head out into the paddock to check fencing, looking to be sure that the coyotes don’t have enough snow-pack to make a ski jump into the paddock. As I walk, the ladies all watch me. I had no idea that sheep were such curious creatures. Mrs. Chubbers clomps over and follows me out into the snow. A few other ewes wander out after us.
This time of night is wonderful; the straw in the barn smells sweet and warm although the air is cold enough that I can see my breath. I tilt my head back and look up at the stars. The sheep are quiet beside me and there is a deep peace.
Suddenly Beulah begins hopping quickly across the paddock. Sheep don’t really run, but hop on those impossibly skimpy stick legs of theirs. Many times I have put hay into their feeder and one of them will do a happy hop and prance to the food. But tonight as Beulah began to dance across the paddock, everybody seemed to want in on the game. She would stomp, stomp, stomp and then suddenly stop, arch her neck and freeze in place. Charlotte picked things up and began racing in nutty circles. Ethel did her own hip hop next to Charlotte then they looked at each other and did a gentle head butt. Beulah started again and it was on. Anne chased her in her own, odd, stiff legged way. Mrs. Chubbers and I stood quietly watching the sheep show. I wondered if she might join in but, as matriarch of the flock, she seemed to watch the rest with a look of bemused tolerance, the same way we humans watch toddlers play.
Standing there, I felt a combination of delight and privilege. During the day they mull around calmly chewing their cud- but tonight a veil had somehow been lifted and it seemed that they had forgotten that I, a different species from them, was there. Or, maybe even better, they didn’t mind.
I laughed out loud as they charged around packing down the snow with their game. Sam appeared at the fence and his tail began wagging as we watched their silliness.
I knew that, in the morning light, the flock I know would be there: standing calmly, contemplatively chewing and watching me work. But tonight, for a moment, the world within this paddock sparkled, and it was enough.