Stupid Sheep

Sheep have got to be one of the stupidest creatures on Earth—if not the stupidest. And before anyone jumps in to defend them with words like “instinct” or “flocking behavior,” let me stop you right there. I have seen things. I have lived the chaos. And I’ve got hoof prints on my boots to prove it.

So the grass in one of our unused areas was getting thick—perfect for grazing. I opened a small gate off the main paddock, called to the sheep, and, thinking I had grain, they came stampeding. If you’ve never seen a flock of sheep in full-speed panic-hopefulness, picture a wool-covered bowling ball with hooves and zero regard for personal space. Now multiply that by twenty.

Most of them followed me right through the gate. Once inside, they realized they were in grass heaven and spread out to graze like it was a high-end buffet. One ewe hesitated, probably debated with all two  brain cells she had, then bravely stepped through to join the others.

So far, so good.

The lambs, who are about two months old now and clocking in around 40 pounds of fluff and nonsense, mostly followed—except for four. These four watched the rest of the flock go through the open gate and then… ran in the opposite direction. Because logic.

No problem, I thought. I moved behind them, doing my best herding dog impersonation (minus the barking, because I still have some dignity), and pushed them back toward the gate. They got close and I backed off, hoping the light would finally flick on upstairs.

Nope. Right past the gate they went. Ewe got to be kidding me. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

Alright, fine. Round two. I got behind them again, repeated my fancy footwork routine, shuffled them back toward the open gate. Still nothing.

So I got a goat. Because goats, while occasionally jerks, are at least smart jerks. I led the goat through the gate several times, putting on a whole demonstration like I was starring in a barnyard instructional video. Two lambs watched, finally got it, and followed. The other two? Still rooted in fear and confusion, bleating like the world was ending while their mothers, bless them, were too busy inhaling fescue to care.

At this point, I’m starting to think these two lambs might actually be allergic to open gates.

I decided to up the odds and opened the other gate—a glorious, 12-foot-wide entrance, practically shouting, “WELCOME, DUMMIES!” I herded them toward it. Surely now?

Nope. Past it they ran. Again.

By now, I’m questioning the entire concept of animal intelligence. I went back to the barn, grabbed a little grain, and called the whole flock back through the small gate into the paddock. Stampede, round two. The plan: regroup and try again, this time with the two stubborn lambs swept up in the crowd.

It worked. The flock stuck together like the herd animals they pretend to be, and finally, the two daft holdouts wandered into the land of plenty. Crisis averted. Grass achieved. Sanity… questionable.

After all that, I’ve come to one conclusion: anything this stupid deserves to be eaten.

But that leaves me with a troubling question:
If you are what you eat… what does that make us when we eat stupid animals?

Just food for thought.
(Sorry. Couldn't resist again.)

(Be sure to check out what happens next at Stupid Sheep - Part 2)