This week’s plan was simple: take down the old chicken coop before gravity does it for me. Easy, right? Just me, a hammer, a few stubborn nails—and, as it turns out, two very involved ewes who think they’re essential personnel.
Meet the “Crew”
If you’ve never worked with Katahdin sheep, imagine toddlers in fleece pajamas who eat everything and have zero respect for personal space. My first volunteer was Ba-a-arbra, named after Barbara Walters, because she’s forever giving me that “hard-hitting-interview” stare like she’s about to ask, “So, Sandy… how long have you been making questionable decisions with power tools?”
Her sidekick was Lambchops, named by the son of a friend. She lives up to the name—sweet, cheerful, and about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
They trotted over from the far end of their pasture like the construction crew had arrived—no hard hats, no clue, but an unshakable belief that they were essential personnel.
Tools, Troubles, and Terrible Advice
No
matter where I set my hammer, one of them had to sniff it, lick it,
or decide if it was food.
I turned to pick up a board and nearly
tripped over
Ba-a-arbra,
who’d stationed herself directly in my
path. She gave me that calm, investigative look—the kind that says,
“Tonight at six: local woman defies logic,
attacks leaning structure, film at eleven.”
Then came the moment that tested both my patience and my vocabulary. I tossed a board toward the burn pile—right as Lambchops wandered into the drop zone.
“Look out!” I yelled.
She stopped, blinked, and stared at me—curiosity in her eyes, salad between her ears.
“For that board I just threw!” I said, pointing.
She blinked again. “Maybe you shouldn’t throw boards where sheep are going to stand,” she said.
“You weren’t standing there when I threw it!”
Before I could finish, Ba-a-arbra chimed in, perfectly calm. “Technically, she’s not wrong. Also, you failed to post safety signage.”
“Signage? You’re sheep!”
“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” she replied, slowly chewing her cud and clearly confident she was winning the case.
Meanwhile, Gus, my livestock guardian dog, cracked one eye open from the shade, sighed so deeply it rustled the grass, and mumbled, “Union break.” Then he rolled over and went back to snoring for his 16th nap of the day.
Progress… If You Can Call It That
An hour later, the coop was half down, I was half done, and the sheep were half asleep—though still managing to supervise. Ba-a-arbra had taken up the role of foreman, standing three feet away and offering unsolicited feedback.
“You might get more done if you used two hands,” she said — which was rich, considering I already was. It’s not like I was out there dismantling a coop one-handed while sipping cocoa.
“Thanks,” I grunted, “I’ll jot that down in the ‘helpful tips from livestock’ file.”
Lambchops kept pacing beside me, asking, “You need help with that?”
“No.”
“Sure? I can hold the other end with my teeth.”
“Positive.”
“Okay, but if something falls, that’s on you.”
Ba-a-arbra sighed. “Enthusiasm over skill. It’s a hiring issue.”
I finally said, “You know what? I don’t need a construction crew—I need a referee.”
“We could do that,” said Ba-a-arbra. “But we’d need whistles and snacks.”
Of course.
The Break Room
When
I finally stopped for water, they gathered around like we were having
a staff meeting.
Lambchops
grazed near my boots; Ba-a-arbra
stood like she was about to deliver a quarterly earnings report; Gus
didn’t move, but one paw twitched, which
I took as his vote to adjourn early.
“We could’ve finished if you’d delegated better,” said Ba-a-arbra.
“Or snacks,” added Lambchops. “Morale’s low without snacks.”
“You two are about as helpful as a pogo stick in mud season,” I told them.
“Maybe,” said Ba-a-arbra, “but we’re cuter and smell better than those chickens you work with sometimes.”
Hard to argue with that.
End of Shift Notes
Half the job’s done, half the crew’s asleep, and I’m half sure I’ll regret this tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment