I sold the last of the sheep yesterday. Just loaded them up, gave them a nod of thanks, and waved goodbye like they were heading off to college. Honestly, it was a practical decision. We originally got the animals to manage the land—goats for brush, pigs for stumps, and sheep to mow the pastures like wool-covered Roombas.
But last year, we brought in a horse. And here’s the thing: horses and sheep eat the same vegetation, and we don’t have enough pasture to support both. So it came down to a choice: the nervous little lawnmowers or the majestic, carrot-demanding hay burner.
Let’s face it—you can’t ride a sheep. You can’t harness a flock of them up to a buggy and take the grandkids out for an afternoon drive (well, you could, but it would involve YouTube, duct tape, and a very flexible definition of “fun”). On the flip side, you can’t eat a horse. I mean, technically you could, but unless you’re stranded in the Yukon, it’s frowned upon. So yeah. . . I picked the one with the saddle and the dramatic flair. Bye-bye, sheepies.
That said, I didn’t expect to miss them. Sheep, after all, are afraid of everything—including me. Even after years of feeding them treats and talking nice, they still looked at me like I was Hannibal Lecter holding a lamb chop. Living with that level of suspicion would hurt a less secure woman’s feelings.
Goats—now they are more my speed. Bold, obnoxious, curious, and bent on mischief—basically my spirit animals. They ignore fencing like it’s a polite suggestion, think “no” means “try harder,” and approach every task with the enthusiasm of a toddler who’s just discovered permanent markers. They are chaos in hooves, and I love them for it. They may eat your roses and your wiring, but at least they do it with confidence.
But even surrounded by all that goat-fueled energy, this past week just felt. . . off. No real reason—nothing tragic, just one of those weeks where you’re mildly grumpy, your head feels like it’s hosting a Morse code convention behind your eyeballs, and you catch yourself muttering at chairs.
I blamed the weather (85 in the sun, 40 in the shade, and the bugs have unionized). Then hormones (at my age, if any are still hanging around, they’d better be doing chores). Finally, I chalked it up to farm stress: ongoing projects, a garden under siege since the Great Goat Escape of July 4th, and a creeping suspicion I’ve forgotten something important—like my own name.
But then I went to the feed store.
I walked in, shoulders slumped, probably looking like someone who’d just lost a staring contest with a fence post. Doug, the owner and resident philosopher-in-overalls, looked up and cheerfully asked, “How’re you doing today?”
I replied with a sigh so deep it probably disturbed the tectonic plates. “Honestly? I’ve been out of sorts all week.”
Without missing a beat, Doug said, “Ah, sheep withdrawal. I’ve heard of it. Never seen a live case, though. Should I call a vet? Or maybe a shepherd?”
That did it. I laughed so hard I scared a display of fly spray off the shelf. My headache, sensing it was no longer welcome, packed up and left in a huff.
The truth is, Doug might be onto something. Maybe I am going through sheep withdrawal. The barn’s too quiet. The pastures look freshly mowed, and not a single soul is giving me the “I know what you’ve done” look when I walk through the gate. For all their skittishness and that eternal sense of doom, the sheep added a certain. . . ambiance. A woolly Greek chorus bleating in judgment. A steady, if paranoid, presence.
Now it’s just me, the goats (agents of entropy), the pigs (bacon with opinions), the dogs (always hoping for extra points), and the horse, Talon, who thrives on drama, carrots, and admiration. Nobody runs from me anymore. Nobody trembles when I wear a raincoat. Nobody stares at me with eyes that say, “Please not today, I have plans.”
I’ll admit it—I kind of miss being feared.
So yeah, maybe it is sheep withdrawal. Or maybe it’s just farm life doing what it always does: surprising me, challenging me, and occasionally handing me a week where everything feels just a little sideways.
But even in those moments, I’m grateful. Grateful for sarcastic feed store wisdom. Grateful for a barnyard full of four-legged weirdos. And grateful that when one species leaves, something else is always ready to step up and chew on the barn door.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go shout “Baaa!” into the pasture. If nothing answers, I’ll just shrug and feed the goats—because around here, silence never lasts for long.
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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm
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