Speaking Sheep

Or: Levite the Translator, Goat Edition Pending

I have a neighbor across the street who only comes up from Connecticut a few times a year. He’s perfectly pleasant, but since he's rarely around, the dogs consider him highly suspicious—like Bigfoot, only with a Range Rover and a weekend bag. So every time he shows up, our Pyrenees launch into their full nighttime alert system: DefCon Bark.

They position themselves at the edge of the pasture, facing his house like fluffy four-legged neighborhood watch, and bark in his direction all night long. It’s not aggressive barking—more like, “Hey! We see you! You better not be up to anything weird!” Which, honestly, is fair. You never know with part-timers.

To keep the peace (and get some sleep), we move the flock into the paddock near the barn when he's here. That keeps the Pyrs quieter and out of trouble.

Come morning, the gate opens, and this is where things get interesting. Levite, our dominant male, takes his job very seriously. He insists on being the first one out of the paddock, like a secret service agent clearing the scene. He struts out, scans the field for threats, real or imagined, and within seconds gives some invisible signal that only the sheep seem to understand.

I swear, the rest of the flock just knows. They stand quietly, like they’re waiting for the usher at a movie theater to wave them to their seats. No one pushes. No one complains. They just wait. Then, Levite gives some kind of “all clear” body language—a tilt of the head, a puff of air, who knows?—and they file out calmly behind him like it’s Sunday morning at the church buffet.

Now, I don’t speak sheep. But apparently he does, because they actually listen. They trust him. It’s bizarre and oddly touching, like church ladies following a potluck casserole—calm, committed, and not to be questioned.

The goats, however? Completely unmoved. They don’t wait. They don’t follow. They certainly don’t listen. They just squeeze through whatever opening they find and bolt out like it’s Black Friday at Tractor Supply. Levite tries to stop them—puts himself in front of them, does his “follow me” routine, but they blow right past him with the same energy as teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

It frustrates him to no end. You can practically see it on his face: “I’m speaking sheep. Why won’t these idiots get it?”

Sorry, buddy. Apparently, goat isn’t in your dialect. Yet. Maybe it’s time to invest in Rosetta Stone: Goat Edition.