Sheep Wrangling

The other day, I made the questionable life choice of going to a friend’s house to help her deworm her sheep. Because apparently, I woke up that morning and said to myself, “You know what sounds like a fun way to break a hip? Playing tag with livestock!”

Now, my friend—bless her optimistic, wildly misguided soul—does not have a catch pen. That’s Farming 101 right there. It’s like going fishing without a net or raising toddlers without caffeine. Not technically impossible, but why would you?

Yes, sheep are dumb. Dumb as a box of rocks. But they’ve got this uncanny sixth sense that lets them detect one thing instantly: a stranger with a drench gun = probable death. Doesn’t matter if I’m smiling, speaking gently, or handing out free samples—they’re convinced I’m there to murder them one by one.

For the non-farming folks: a drench gun is a big syringe but instead of having a needle on the end, it has a long tube. Stick the tube w-a-a-y back in the animal’s throat, push the plunger, and voila!—liquid goes down. Easy, peasy. But, of course, you have to catch said animal first.

The first sheep was a piece of cake. She had been a bottle baby so she basically thought I was her mother, therapist, and personal chef all rolled into one. Deworming her was like giving a snack to a golden retriever.

But from that point on, the party was over.

The rest of the flock took one look at that drench gun and immediately filed a class-action lawsuit against me under the Sheep Geneva Convention. They scattered like I was handing out IRS audits. One by one, I managed to catch them and do the deed.

Then there was the last one. The boss ewe. Big. Hairy. Full of attitude. Picture a linebacker in a wool coat with the suspicion level of a TSA agent. She saw what I did to her buddies and decided she was having none of it.

She stayed exactly one corner away from me at all times. No matter where I moved, she mirrored me like we were in some weird barnyard version of Swan Lake. It was majestic. And infuriating.

So I turned to the universal sheep bribe: grain.

I tossed a little at my feet and casually pretended to be just another farm gal with zero ulterior motives. The other sheep—traitors—wandered over, shoving each other like they hadn’t eaten in three years. Slowly, Miss Mountain O’ Wool crept in too, lured by the intoxicating scent of molasses, cracked corn, and bad decisions.

When she got close enough, I went full ninja.

I simultaneously dropped the grain bucket and launched myself through the air like a deranged flying squirrel, latching onto her fleece with both hands. She shot off like a cannonball with me riding her like I was eight seconds from a rodeo championship.

She zigged. She zagged. She ran what felt like a full marathon with me clinging to her neck like a particularly determined burr. This panicked all the others, so now there was a full barnyard stampede. They had no idea where they were racing to—apparently, somebody yelled “RUN,” and they thought that was a good idea.

Finally—finally—she collapsed in a heap like she’d just done two hot yoga classes back-to-back. There I was, still on top of her, panting, covered in dust, and questioning every life choice I’ve made since 1973. Did I
mention she was extremely large? It was like doing a five-point restraint on a Shetland pony.

My friend, who I swear was selling tickets and handing out popcorn at this point, ran up, looped a rope around the ewe’s neck, and chirped, “Okay! I’ve got her. You can get up now!”

Oh, really? Right. I’ll get right on that.

I won't say I'm elderly just yet, but I can qualify for the senior discount most places. I’ve got a knee that sounds like bubble wrap when I move, a back that protests louder than a toddler at bedtime, and enough extra fluff around the middle to make gravity a real bully. And you want me to just hop off this woolly freight train like I’m dismounting a bicycle?

Yeah. No.

Eventually, through a series of loud grunts and what can only be described as interpretive flailing, I managed to get upright. Graceful it was not. But we got her dewormed.

And then?

She just stood there, staring up at me with her beady little eyes and this weird expression that clearly said: “Hey lady… that was kinda fun. Wanna go again?”

Final thoughts:

• Sheep are dumb.

• I’m dumber.

• And if anyone needs me, I’ll be icing my everything and rethinking my friendships.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.