Lamb Chops Are Sounding Better And Better All The Time

  I used to love sheep. I had visions of the furry little lambs happily gamboling among calm ewes, and majestic rams standing watch over their families, with wise eyes surveying the horizon for danger. I had fantasies of arriving home after a day at the Frame Shop, and seeing white fluffy dots on the hillside, hearing joyful "Baaaaaa"s as the faithful Border Collie began to round them up, and spinning soft, soft wool into yarn which I would use to knit extremely lovely and highly sought-after sweaters.
  I started out with the Border Collie- a sweet, sweet tri-color boy that I love with all of my heart. He loves me too, unless there is a sheep close by. When he spots one, I cease to exist completely. We attend herding classes every week, and I look forward to getting in the ring with Mac, Ms. Jane Bradley (a very well-respected instructor and just a lovely lady all around) and a selection of sheep. We start out with simple exercises; sneak up on the sheep without spooking them, keep the sheep going in one direction, and don't let the dog hurt the sheep.

  

Couldn't you just kiss her?

  All went well for a couple of months, and if I wasn't the most graceful of shepherdesses, I bet I had the most fun! Watching Mac doing what he enjoys so much, being among the sweet sheep, laughing with a group of people who were enjoying this herding thing as much as I, all made Saturday mornings the highlight of my week.

 Then I turned my back on one of the fuzzy little psychopaths...

 The morning was beautiful, crisp and clean and when the sun came out, nice and warm. We all dragged our dogs and our chairs out to the field and set up for the morning's lessons. The sheep were herded from their big field up to the holding field, and the lucky few were selected. There were three- a mama and two lambs. These were nearly grown babies, and you wouldn't call them lambs if you just walked up to them on the street. They look like regular old sheep to me.

  Mac and I had the first turn. We hadn't had lessons the week before, and had been studying abroad (up in North Alabama) for the two weeks before that, so the sheep were a little frisky. One of the lambs bounced across the pen, pronging in a "Sharks and Jets" kind of gesture. I laughed an indulgent laugh. Oh, the silly child, excited by the weather and feeling it's oats! What a precious sight.

  Then I turned my back.

   How it happened is, Mac lost his mind over the sheep and their unusual flightiness, and began herding them in the way that HE wanted them to go, with no thought as to what I had directed him to do. I stopped to get a pointer or two on how to get things going in the right direction once more, and BAM, the little shit, I mean sheep plowed right into me, and kept going without a backward glance to see if he'd killed me.

A sheep's head is about knee high.

  I heard the crunch, rather then felt it, but I felt my knee bend kind in the wrong direction. It didn't hurt, but I immediately went down. On the way to the ground I had time to think that I shouldn't have enjoyed bending my Barbie dolls' knees backwards so much, and that I'd have to dig them out of my old closet at Daddy's and apologize.

It's all fun and games until someone gets eaten.

                                                                                 * Image courtesy of "Black Sheep" movie*

  In the inevitable hilarity which ensued, someone snapped a photo, Mac continued to chase the sheep, and Ms. Jane caught him and then leaned down and told me not to worry, that I could just go twice during the second round of runs. I think that's when I started laughing.

Notice that my son does not care in the least that I am broken. 

  I hobbled over to the gate and made it to my chair, where I held court for the rest of the morning, foot propped on a cinder block, a bag of ice cooling my knee. Mac finished his lessons, and I drove home. Chris insisted that I wear not the navy exercise pants that would easily raise and lower over my knee for examining purposes, but shorts, because, he explained, they would have to cut my pants off if I wore long ones. I tried telling him that I was not shot, merely cracked, but he has watched too many "Trauma: Life In The ER" episodes, and so I wore shorts.

  We have such kind people at our local ER. Not one of them mentioned that I have not shaved since the first of November, even when their latex gloves caught on my stubble. They just smiled and tugged until the gloves came free, and then patted me on my head or my shoulder,or some other part that was covered. 

   I am thinking that I can just spin my leg hairs into highly sought-after sweaters and gift them to the wonderful ER employees.

   And I am thinking lamb chops for dinner.