March Madness isn’t just the breeding season for hares and the bringing of college basketball tournaments in America (although Go Big Blue!). No, it is also time to enjoy the glorious spring weather in Wales (it has been raining for 2 weeks) and to deal with encroaching sheep.
We currently live in a big cottage surrounded by farms, which I love, but that also means that livestock will occasionally become an issue. I can handle the pungent aroma of the cattle next door and the amazingly loud baaing of breeding ewes and their offspring at 5:00 AM, but now the sheep are becoming proactive in their awakening of the Kramers. This morning, shortly after dawn, while I was trying to sleep in, some rogue sheep from a neighbor’s field invaded my lawn.
Sheep shit all over the grass is one thing, but they also got into the garage — just to rummage around and deposit sheep doodoo in lavish piles, I assume. Moreover, the bleating buggers also got on the kids’ trampoline. (WHY? WHY did the wooly bastards get on the trampoline? Was there insufficient space to crap in the garage?) After leaving fresh ovine doots on the trampoline, the wayward ewes stomped on my hydrangeas and knocked over a shed and some of the yard’s big planters before settling down to much greenery.
It was messy, but not too big of a deal.
Then it got worse.
My youngest child, unaware of the Dawn of the Sheep, released our wee dogs into the yard for their morning constitutional. The dogs went – in the words of Terry Pratchett – full Librarian Poo. Our youngest dog, a Pomeranian/Terrier mix named Foxy, quickly fled back inside the house when the ruminants bleated at her, and our eldest, a Pekinese named Marquis, ignored the sheep as inferior animals with no treats to give him, but the middle dog, a Chinese crested powderpuff named Jack, decided that he must defend the garden from four-legged cotton wads or die trying. Have you ever heard a small yap dog start yapping like he means it? It is deafening.
The sheep panicked under the fire of the machinegun-like yaps from Jack. Whilst my Sweet Babou and I donned our wellies and prepared to join the affray, the sheep decided they should leave the garden forthwith. So the sheep knocked down part of our fence and made their getaway though the bigass hole they had created.
Marquis wisely stayed in the yard while the invading sheep made their escape, but our foolish little Jack decided to GIVE CHASE and settle those ovine marauders once and for all. Thus, our 4 kilo canine fuzzball tears hell for leather out over the open field behind our house, and is out of our sight in seconds (but we could still hear the eejit yapping all the way). This well and truly panics us because if Jack is mistaken for a dog off its lead that is ‘worrying’ the sheep, a farmer is legally allowed to kill him for endangering the flock. Dogs with irresponsible owners frequently get into fields and kill lambs and ewes, so we were terrified a farmer might shoot first and ask what happened later.
My Sweet Babou, wearing his wellies, penguin-covered pajamas, and a coat, stride boldly though the mud after our dog while I run back into the house to phone my local farming contact, a lovely shepherdess named Jane. I explained the situation to Jane, who was elbows deep in a ewe’s backside delivering placenta at the time, and she calls the sheep’s owner to warn him of the wandering livestock and the presence of a yapping (but harmless) dog in their midst. Thankfully the farmer, who was out tracking his strays, found our dog and could tell that this animal was only a danger to kibble. We got little Jack back in less than 15 minutes, and my hubby returned safely not long after. The doggies all curled up in front of the aga, worn out by the excitement of sheep.
All has returned to calm here at the Kramer’s house. Sweet Babou has rigged a temporary fence-blocker to keep the dogs in and the sheep out. Jane came by for a cuppa and to see how we were doing. The farmer who owns the sheep was very apologetic, and he’s going to get some wire and posts to fix the hole the naughty sheep made in the fence. Other than sheep caca all over the place and my broken beauty sleep, things are copasetic.
Ah, the joys of country living in southern Wales.
