I saw Sheep Detectives today with my Mom and my nieces today for my Mom’s birthday present.
It was pretty good and surprisingly poignant.
Stupid sheep movie. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
I was actually sort of thinking that shepherd is potentially my dream job. Being both an older sibling and an uncle, I have plenty of experience with small-to-medium size mammals and I wouldn’t have to talk to people.
Incidentally, the profession of sheepherding almost indirectly gave us what is, in my opinion, one of the most underrated Pro Wrestling themes of all time:
© J.B. Norman — Published by Emona Literary Services™
“You know,” Amara says, gently steering the lamb back to the… group of sheep with her shepherd… stick…thing. “Aside from the smell, this really isn’t so bad.”
“Uh huh,” Kat says noncommittally.
She turns to look down at Annie.
“A group of sheep is a flock, Kat,” she tells her cousins, seeming to sense Kat’s unspoken questions. “And the stick is a crook.”
“He’s getting away again,” Kat notes, pointing back at the lamb.
“Oh,” Amara groans. “Hold this.”
She shoves her… stick into Kat’s hands and runs away the lamb as he makes a break for it.
She comes back with the lamb draped over her shoulders.
“So, uh,” Kat ventures, giving Amara a long, quizzical look, “Since when do you like being outside for hours at a time? Or, um, doing any kind of work at all? There’s bugs out here, Amara. And weather. And sheep. And the sheep’s um… yeah.”
Amara narrows her eyes and does that thing she does where she wiggles her nose at Kat.
“Katherine, if I weren’t carrying my dear Eleutherius Jenkins-Wickershyn IV here, I would hit you,” she warns.
Kat blinks.
“His name is what?”
“Eleutherius Jenkins-Wickershyn IV,” Amara says, emphasising each and every syllable. “Farmer Marrow left me a copiously annotated guide to his sheep. Names, favourite kinds of glass upon which to graze. Which ones need a lullaby before bed. I really must endeavour to make his absence impact the flock as little as possible.”
“I see…” Kat mutters.
“I’ll have you know that the Marrows have owned the farm beside Uncle Ammianus and Aunt Juliana’s for years,” Amara explains. “The least I could do is look after his darlings while he’s busy sitting the bar.”
“Is this that less oblique nobles thing?” Kat asks.
“The word is noblesse oblige, Katherine,” Amara counters. “Noblesse. Oblige.”
“That’s two words,” Kat mutters. “And why are wehere?”
She points to herself, Annie, and Dunstana.
“Because Miss Antiqua wants to avail herself of Mrs. MacPhearson’s reading room. And Dunstana wanted to see if she could ride one of the sheep.
“Wait,” Kat says.
She beings desperately scanning the fields
“Where’s Dunstana?”
“Oh, I could totally ride him,” Dunstana mutters, staring intently at the biggest ram.
She takes a step forward.
Annie wordlessly reaches out to grab her by the sleeve.
Kat turns back to Amara.
“But we do get to eat one of them at some point, right? Isn’t that why farmers raise sheep?” she asks.
Amara gasps in horror, the colour draining from her face.
“Don’t listen, Eleutherius Jenkins-Wickershyn IV!” she cries, covering the lamb’s innocent ears.
As if comprehending her words or else sense her desire for a nice plate of lambchops, one of the rams trots over to her and begins butting her shins.
“Ow,” she says.
Inspired by that example, Dunstana soon begins butting her other leg.
“Ow! Why are you doing it?” she cries.
Neither looking up nor stopping her butting, Dunstana shrugs.
“Looked like fun.”
“Frankly, Katherine,” Amara notes. “You deserved it.”
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