Sheeps… Or Things to Do While Mourning

Mister, who is the voice of conservative reason and common sense, looks me in the eye. What starts as socializing a puppy quietly becomes a habit, and before you know it, you are slipping off to classes and then to dog trials. You wind up driving hours for herding lessons. You end up with ducklings in a tub in the back porch. Mister says, you have created a monster. Jolene says, how do you expect me to practice? Mister concedes the undeniable point.

This week I lost my constant companion. The one that travels with me where horses and dogs cannot go. We were together on the New Zealand beach and the red dirt of Australia. She rested on my lap on trains in Scotland and kept me company when it was time to put my aching feet up in Paris. Always in the bag that I never set down, with me in the truck, not left in the trailer. I have a large-screen desktop for online lessons, but my laptop traveled.

Computers have no loyalty. I wore the paint off the keyboard. It croaked, beyond repair, something more obsolete than me. Dragging my heels and warning the young man at the store to avoid geeksplaining, I picked a workhorse laptop. Not fancy, but so improved over the old one that I fell in love immediately. Set up in less than an hour, no drama. A gentle reminder that loss is the thing that happens so something new has room to show its stuff.

More bittersweet whiplash to think a dog follows the one before. That Preacher Man made room for Jolene. I always hate goodbyes, and mourn each loss forever. But if we can keep plodding forward, something surprising will slip in and bring us joy. If we only let it. Jolene needs no such sermons.

Bittersweet is the word that describes this age when mourning feels like a lifestyle. Making peace with loss becoming a natural state. More relationships, equal more death, equal more mourning. For years I fought loss like a cold, coughing till my eyes watered. Hacking and spitting until my ribs hurt. Now, let mourning become a soft, warm place shared with loved ones. Is there a better way to honor those who have walked on, no matter the species, than to survive? To celebrate the crazy, chaotic world with energy and stay a bit wild? And most decidedly undomesticated.

So, the ducks have a new duck house and a pen with a roof. They are marching about like penguins, all quacked-up about it. Their training is coming along; pet-able after paying the green pea toll. It’s a long-term process to tame them for herding, and it will be awhile before Jolene and I have the finesse required. But my new herding friends tilt their heads when I tell them. Are they thinking what I hope they are? Is my master plan coming together?

The sheeps were available earlier than I expected. Six, most past breeding age, but with enough dog-time that they will almost tolerate the unbalanced ways of a young dog and a novice handler. You should raise a skeptical eyebrow here. Sheeps and ducks are not known for intellectual prowess.

Editor’s note: I was told by a fellow sheep owner that the plural of sheep is sheeps. I think it’s true since the plural of dog is dogs. The AI spellcheck is taking a red pen to me, but they are humorless, micromanaging blowhards. I will not bow to their superior AI dullness and lack of wit.

I didn’t choose the sheeps. My herding instructor has a large herd and with new lambs yearly, some elders move on. I trusted her to give me the right sheeps. I expected all ewes, but there was a wether, a neutered male. He is an “Appaloosa” hair sheep with a colossal head and a little toupee on top that he is not at all embarrassed by. He was introduced as a “steady eddie,” a calm leader who would help us. Which he proved the minute they landed, and he led girls out, following me to their new pen. The unintentional name stuck. The Grandfather Horse would like you to know I’ve always been lucky with Appaloosas. A hero, Eddie is doing his best for all sides. No, I will not send him to Washington, DC. They are not smart enough to listen.

My heart aches that my friend Elaine isn’t here to taunt me about these sheeps. We would have a cackle-fest. Nobody ever teased me better. At the end, she said, make it good. And I promised.

Edgar Rice Burro was the first to touch noses. He thinks they’re goats. The ewes say, close enough. The girls are slowly letting me know who they are. Individuals who present as one herd. Prey before personality. They spent their first week staying close to each other. I turned them out, but they were too nervous to graze, despite the aroused ears-up welcome from the equines.

My instructor had asked if Jolene came to the barn with me. No, my horse training insurance has an opinion on that. And if you happen to have rescue dogs who go totally deaf at the sight of horse manure, you don’t let them in the barn either. Especially when a certain retiree has a limited sense of humor about intruders, as Edgar Rice Burro has proven repeatedly. But it’s a foundational thing for Jolene that had to be fixed. How can she work sheep if she is looking over her shoulder at a cantankerous donkey? So now she shadows me during chores, on a long leash for safety, but she keeps at my heel.

We are bringing the sheeps in at night and sorting at the gate. One through at a time. Just simple stuff, but if a sheep fleeing for its very life has not tackled you, you don’t know. They hit adults in the hip area, and you go down. If you are a kid, as I recall, you only count as a speed bump. So naturally, something spooked all six. I got bumped, barely enough for a butt fall. Rather than fight it, I let my body roll painlessly to the ground, just in time for a splendid view of two ewes leaping over me. Then Jolene came running, low to the ground like an iguana, crawling onto my chest to check for signs of life. Yay. Call it an initiation. We’re officially in.

I spent the week fixing the same fence I had fixed just the week before. The sheep and Jolene can apparently squeeze through fences like an octopus can slip through a pinhole. Edgar, impatient at the separation, shoved past me as I was securing the gate. Greeting newcomers has always been his job.

Oh, I’ve heard the whispers. The light statement followed by a nervous giggle. Jolene is spoiled, you say jokingly, but it’s time to clarify things.

Perhaps you have forgotten how this story started, all those months ago, when I was Nipping at the Heels of Despair. Give it a second read. I was in a funk. This age of letting go, sometimes without consent and sometimes to ease the load. I was reeling from losses in the barn and wondering who would be the next to go. I’m sure most gray mares ponder mortality. I asked Mister if I was being too morose, but he shook his ears no. Still, it’s a pretty sad way to spend the day, so I had to make some changes.

For the record, yes, I started taking Jolene to classes and now I’m taking her to trials, and yes, now we have sheeps and ducks. But don’t think for a moment I’m spoiling Jolene. That’s a ridiculous suggestion, when it’s so blatantly obvious that I’m spoiling me.

…

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Women Aging Cantankerously