All we like sheep…

It was a regular free-for-all.

An unlatched gate, a freakish puff of passing wind, and in moments the bucolic tranquility of a sleepy afternoon unraveled into a three-ring circus. I came downstairs just in time, glanced out the window with serene satisfaction (I should have known better), and gasped in horror. Slamming down my freshly-brewed cup of chamomile tea, I tore out the back door, pausing only to slip my feet into some ridiculous garden clogs that refuse to stay on my feet under ordinary circumstances and which were certainly never intended to sustain the rigors of hot pursuit.

The backyard seemed full of them, though in reality it was only two goat kids and six lambs. But they were racing in mad circles, eluding all capture, in a hundred directions at once. And there was only one of me. I swear that naughty Pansy, my Nubian doeling, was laughing at me over her shoulder as she ran. And Puck her brother was on to me, as well, wanting nothing to do with the grain I desperately offered him which, in the ordinarily calm routine of the barnyard, is the day’s most looked-for treat. The dogs, tearing back and forth along the fence with frantic barks of alarm were only adding to the confusion, but I got the distinct impression that that bossy and capable Juno of mine was thoroughly put out with me for allowing her babies to place themselves in such danger. I refrained from reminding her that it was on her watch that they had escaped in the first place.

In the end I was reduced to the capture-and-carry strategy. I’m pretty wiry, but after toting a couple of wriggling and kicking goats across the yard and depositing them on the proper side of the fence, then baiting a few lambs with grain and treating them in a like inglorious manner, I was completely worn out. And hot and dirty and mad. As I looked around at the little imps now browsing calmly on my crepe myrtles I had a hard time believing that these were the same creatures as those wooly darlings that came running up to me for pettings and ear-scratchings, that nuzzled my hand with velvet noses and followed me into the barn every night with an eager obedience I couldn’t help being flattered by.

And now, with the taste of rebellion in their mouths, seasoned with the consequent flavor of fear, their shepherdess was the very last thing in the world they wanted to encounter. It was all my boys who were left—Benedick, Sebastian and Harry, the largest and boldest of them all, named for the intrepid Henry V. (Not that I think my girls were that much less rebellious—they’re only smaller and easier to tote. I had unaccountably saved my wethers for my exhausted state.) After a few more breathless turns around the yard and a desperate prayer or two, I was finally able to corral Sebastian and then Benedick, who suffered themselves to be plopped down in the pasture without a fuss once they saw the game was up. Besides, I think they were rather keen to be with their friends again—the way of transgressors, you know, is hard. And lonely.

But Harry was another matter altogether. My showy, beautiful boy, with his curling horns that would have been quite impressive had we left him a ram, my stout-hearted baby who loves kisses on the top of his pure white head just as much as he loves ramming it against one of his brothers’—he was, there was no mistaking it, abjectly terrified. Of me. He led me on a wild chase, and what a sight it must have been. The ridiculous shoes were left behind in a tangle of periwinkle; my blue dress was now an unbecoming shade of red clay; and I think, if one had looked closely, they would have seen smoke coming out of my ears. And then something happened that erased my anger in a moment and replaced it with a fear that took my breath. Harry eluded me again, made a quick turn, and went racing off down the driveway, as fast as his legs would carry him. There was no way I could catch him.

“Jesus! Please let the gate be closed!” I shouted as I pursued him, like one in a nightmare whose feet are lodged in mud.

It was. Thanks be to God. If it wasn’t, I feel sure he’d be in Alabama by now.

I collapsed in the driveway and he stood there, just out of arms’ reach, regarding me warily, with panic flickering in those gorgeous, limpid eyes of his. We were both panting; every so often he’d turn suddenly and ram himself against the pasture fence, in a futile attempt to regain the old life and the sweetness of security on the other side. It broke my heart—

“It’s me, Harry—I’m trying to help you,” I fairly sobbed.

There was only one way back into all that he’d so impulsively forsaken, and which his brothers and sisters were now enjoying as placidly as if nothing had ever happened. And I was the only one that could give it to him. At last in our mutual exhaustion and by nothing short of a miracle, I was able to direct him into the barnyard, where he stumbled about for a while, too dazed even to drink. My relief took the last bit of strength that I had—I quite literally wept for joy.

I think the very angels in heaven were glad.

originally published 2008 on YLCF