Most people assume a flock of sheep share just the one brain cell. Actually, they are engaging, affectionate and bright. And, if you invest time, their personalities shine through. I moved from the city to the country 16 years ago and spent the first decade content to have two horses, two dogs and two teenagers. Then a local sheep breeder asked if I’d have some of her show ring rejects and so a motley crew of seven Zwartbles, with all the wrong markings, arrived at my farm.
Zwartbles are a large, handsome breed with a dense, wiry black fleece and white socks and tail tips. I assumed they would be my glorified lawnmowers, but the one time I let them into the garden, havoc ensued with Astrild falling asleep in the flower bed, Eliza and Emily dozing in front of the car, Brontë moving the garden furniture around, Catkin and Willow staring in through the French doors and Lovely rounding up the dogs.
From the start, I had a special connection with Catkin, who would call as soon as she saw me and belt her way over the field to be first in line, backing up for a bum scratch that was over only when she said so. She was tall and very beautiful, with a white blaze running down her face, an inquisitive gaze and the chattiest of bleats. Her mum, Willow, was more reserved and even though her daughter was fully grown, she always grazed close by.
One morning, after checking the sheep, I was in the yard seeing to the horses, when, about an hour later, Catkin and Willow suddenly appeared, quietly watching, waiting, and delighted by my laughter. Animals respond to laughter and, before long, will actively court it – such as when Catkin accidentally broke two of my ribs. I was cuddling her while filling the water trough, turned away momentarily – and suddenly I had a sheep halfway up my back. I went flying into the electric fencing, bounced off and ended up dunked in the trough. It hurt to laugh but I couldn’t stop – much to Catkin’s delight.
I’m rather proud of my Bo Peepness – when it was time for shearing, I took them to my friend’s farm where the shearing station was all set up. There were sheep everywhere and it was noisy. But my girls, polite and demure, simply followed me without drama for their haircut.
Catkin developed a horrible skin complaint and despite every test under the sun, no cause was found. In 2022, for the last summer of her life, I had to bathe her face and give her injections daily. She was a model patient but nothing was helping; she was so sore and had become very thin and I realised I was simply keeping her alive for my sake. I had to make the decision to let her go. I really struggled with her death. Then her mum, Willow, died on Christmas Day last year. She was very old and it was simply her time. I’m welling up as I write this. I miss those ladies, the black sheep of my family – they loved me, they had a laugh with me and they’ve left such a sad space in my dwindling flock.
