Miracle Max, the Suffolk ram, came home the other day in time for the breeding season. You may recall that Max made history last year when my daughter Fruit Loop and I cured him of enterotoxaemia, using drugs, herbs and the collected wisdom of several ancient sheep texts that I keep on the shelf. People have told me that Max should have some sort of plaque on his pen, identifying him as the first sick sheep in Petunia Valley that ever got better.
By the time we had finished treating him, Max lost his fear of people and became first an irritating pest, and then fairly dangerous. As soon as he bred my handful of ewes, I sent him back up to his previous owner, Wilf Smalley, who operates the largest sheep flock in the Valley. Last spring, my ewes produced the best crop of lambs I have ever seen and I decided to get Max back again for another trial.
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Wilf turned up in the laneway with his little trailer and led Max out on a halter. He is now the size of a small horse and wears a permanently startled look, like you ve just cut him off in traffic or barged into line ahead of him in a restaurant.
Is he safe? I asked.
Wilf thought for a moment and shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. Anybody who wasn t raised with lead plumbing knows you aren t safe around a ram this size, he said. Now he s not a problem when he s got 75 ewes to play with, but in your case, you need to take& precautions.
Like what?
Some people I know take a length of black plastic pipe in the pen with them and if he comes around they give him a sharp rap on the nose with it.
Some people I know would be very critical of that, I observed.
My wife is one of them, said Wilf. She makes me carry an aluminum baseball bat. If he s too much of a problem I ll come and get him. Just keep your head up in the corners.
Fruit Loop drew a warning poster of a monstrous Warhammer 40,000 ram with teeth and manifold exhaust pipes and hung it on the sheep pen. But he got me the following Monday. I was standing on the other side of the pen, fiddling with a water bowl and he hit my hand, a glancing blow, but still enough to flatten one of my fingers. Fortunately for Max, it was my trigger finger. I was hopping around with my hand clamped under my armpit reciting passages from the Old Testament when Fruit Loop came into the stable.
Maybe he doesn t like your coveralls, Dad, she said. Do you see the way he stares at them?
I hardly think so. Sheep are supposed to be colour blind, aren t they?
I got these coveralls as a joke gift last Christmas from some friends in the city. It s a red Santa suit with white cuffs and I get quite a few double takes from strangers who drive by on the sideroad. I waved my arm at Max and he smashed into the partition again.
I think it s the coveralls, Dad, said Fruit Loop.
After my wife took Fruit Loop to school, I waited for Max to go into the sheep shed and pushed the sliding door shut with a hoe handle. I took off the coveralls and put them over a concrete gatepost with my scarf and hat. Then I let Max back out into the yard.
My veterinary books are all silent on the subject of a sheep with a concussion. My wife saw me sitting out in the barnyard beside Max when she drove in the lane. She stared out the window of the car for a moment before speaking.
Did you read him to sleep or something? she asked.
I think I killed him, I said gloomily. She shook her head doubtfully. You
can t kill a ram just by hitting him on the head. You have to do something more, like sell him to somebody for more than you paid for him. That s usually fatal, in my experience.
Max got up about an hour later, took one look at the overalls and staggered back into the barn. He s been fine ever since.
He s just like the kids, said my wife. They were afraid of Santa, too. Remember?
