Sheep Poop!

Now, I know what you're thinking—“Wow, what a glamorous life she must lead.” And you'd be absolutely right. Because what says glamour more than spending a breezy afternoon examining sheep poop like it’s fine wine?

Jim and I recently attended a FAMACHA workshop. For the uninitiated (i.e., anyone with a normal life), FAMACHA is a method used to determine internal parasite levels in sheep and goats—so you only deworm the animals that need it. That way, the worms don’t build up resistance and start demanding union wages and PTO. (If there is a parasite overload, the inner eyelids, which should be bright pink, will be pale pink to white, indicating anemia.)

It all started innocently enough. We sat through a slide presentation where someone, somewhere, decided a three-foot close-up of an sheep's inner eyelid was a good idea before lunch. Then it was time for hands-on practice. We filed outside to check actual sheep eyeballs, flipping lids like we were working at a fast-food joint for livestock: “Would you like anemia with that?”

After the eyelids came the poop. Glorious, glorious poop. Now, ideally, you’d just stand around, clipboard in hand, while your sheep politely deposits their samples in front of you like the cooperative little angels they are in the storybook version of farming. In reality, we spent an uncomfortable amount of time crouched behind woolly butts, waiting, praying, and occasionally fishing for it ourselves like gold mine prospectors.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like elbowing your way into a sheep’s personal space while whispering, “Please poop. Please. Just. . . poop.” Honestly, the only thing missing was a candlelight dinner and a playlist of Barry White.

One gal in our group was the Beyoncé of sheep wrangling. She had this move—some kind of judo sheep snatch—that would’ve made a professional wrestler weep. She caught a sheep mid-sprint with the grace of a panther. Meanwhile, the rest of us were performing interpretive dance routines with halters and embarrassment.

Back at the barn, things really got weird. We measured the poop, mashed it into a scientific smoothie, strained it like fine soup stock, and slapped it on a microscope slide. I half expected Gordon Ramsay to walk in and scream, “It’s RAW!” Then we broke out calculators and math formulas that made me long for the simple days of long division and pencil sharpeners.

And let me tell you, the weather? Absolutely divine. Sunny, cool, a slight breeze—just a whisper of autumn in the air. Perfect poop-collecting weather. While the rest of the world was out hiking or sipping overpriced lattes on some lakeside dock, we were harvesting fecal samples and living our best life. That, my friends, is dedication—or insanity.

In fact, I think we’re onto something here. I see a whole new frontier opening up—competitive poop collection. Maybe even a league. I’m talking official jackets, theme music, commemorative mugs. We’ll call it Poop Gatherers of New England—PGNE. Jim says that acronym sounds like a gas company, so he’s pitching Poop Gatherers of America instead. PGA. Has a nice ring, right? Finally, a reason to watch golf.

So, if anyone needs me next weekend, I’ll be training. Sheep poop waits for no one.