Last summer we drove four hours each way to pick up four sheep—three ewe lambs, about five months old, and one wether, which is a neutered male. The wether’s job was simple: keep the ram company until breeding season, then politely excuse himself so spring lambs would arrive at a sensible time of year. Because January lambs are not lambs. They are lambsicles. I refuse to participate in that program.
Everything was planned. Everything was thought through. We had gates. We had panels. We had a system. I felt organized, which should have alerted me immediately that something was about to go terribly wrong.
Before unloading, I blocked a barn door to keep Gus—our livestock guardian dog—out of the area. Gus is very good at his job. Unfortunately, his job description includes personally inspecting all new arrivals immediately, regardless of human, or sheep, opinion.
We unloaded the first two sheep without incident: a very pretty brown ewe and the wether. Calm. Cooperative. Civilized. I remember thinking, Well look at us, hauling livestock like people who know what we're doing.
That’s when Gus hulked his way through the barricade like the barn door had personally insulted his mother. The two sheep already on the ground saw a large white dog appear out of thin air and did what sheep do best when startled: they achieved teleportation.
Under the truck.
Down the driveway.
Into the woods.
Gone.
I slammed the tailgate shut before the remaining two could join the jailbreak, escorted Gus back behind the now-reinforced door, and secured the pen like I was sealing off a federal prison. The last two sheep unloaded beautifully. Of course they did. The chaos quota had already been filled.
Then came the search.
We walked the woods. We called. We contacted neighbors. We posted on the town Facebook page, which is where lost items go to be mourned publicly. We even notified a lost dog rescue group. Everyone with game cameras checked them frequently, because nothing excites people quite like the possibility of spotting someone else’s escaped livestock.
Calling for the sheep was useless. They didn’t know me yet. I wasn’t their human, and I wasn’t a sheep, so my opinion on the matter carried very little weight.
At one point, I stood in the driveway and loudly played a YouTube video of sheep baaing from my cellphone, hoping flocking instinct, curiosity, or peer pressure might convince them to come home. If any neighbors were watching, this is when they would have decided I should not be left alone.
I also secretly hoped that when breeding season arrived, nature would prevail and the ewe would somehow follow her biological GPS back to my ram, because surely sheep had better internal navigation than I did.
They did not. Days passed. Then weeks. No sightings. No sheep. Eventually, “missing” became “probably.” They were almost certainly a very tasty—albeit very expensive—coyote snack.
So yes, we drove eight hours round-trip to bring home four sheep. And ended up with two. A friend gave me a wether to keep my ram company, because while sheep may wander off into the woods, farmers tend to circle back and help each other patch the holes.
That was last summer. Here we are in January with two ewes expecting lambs in April—ewes who now know me very well as the bringer of food. My voice carries authority these days, especially when accompanied by a grain bucket.
The barn is quiet again. Order has been restored. Gus still believes he did nothing wrong. And spring, as always, is coming.
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