The pastoral images of sheep placidly grazing in some sunset-vista pasture are quickly subsumed by the awareness that they are stepping on your toes and don’t much care if they happen to knock you down into the dirt. I was standing in a makeshift outdoor pen with Melaney; she would inoculate a lamb or ewe, and then I would mark it with an animal crayon, before we separated the lambs and ewes.
Many of the lambs would take nibbles of my overalls and rubber boots, and after I tapped one on the head and admonished, “Not a snack!” I noticed that it felt like I had something loose deep in my right boot. Rocks? Pebbles? No, too soft, and they’re kind of squishy, almost like…
I scrambled out of the pen and hopped over to the truck to lean against it while I tried to pour out the contents of my boot. One of the lambs must have backed right up against my pantleg and let a few go.
Between that and everything else (like sweeping out the truck box), I’ve seen enough sheep souvenirs to last me a lifetime. Suddenly hay doesn’t seem so bad.
Funny thing: I saw MS on the 11:15am boat this morning. We spent the entire crossing standing on the bowside upper deck, chatting about different things. It’s a small, small world.