Baa Baa Black Sheep

Entry posted by GhostOfClayton April 12, 2011

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Back in the UK now.

After a long and tiring day on Saturday spent on the French TGV, the EuroStar, and then the East Coast Main Line, I had one day's rest . . . which I spent doing laundry, shopping, ironing, cutting the grass, etc., etc.

On Monday I found that I had agreed to do some voluntary work for one of the RSPB reserves that line the Humber Estuary. An interesting day. The reserve own a flock of Hebridean sheep

which require regular maintenance, and today was the day they needed their feet seeing to. Sheep, you see, get foot rot. This is caused by a nasty, but quite wimpy bacterium, which dies on exposure to air. So a little (painless) trimming of the leathery covering of their feet, followed by an antibiotic spray, usually cures the problem within a few days (though sometimes the treatment needs to be repeated if they're still limping).

So, the plan was as follows: I 'tip' the sheep - an operation that positions it on its bum with its feet sticking straight out - and the RSPB lady (Karen) trims and sprays the feet, and marks its head with a spot of blue paint. The problem is that, upon arrival, all the sheep are milling about in a field, free to run away when approached by, say, a big, ugly hiking guide.

However, the reserve also own a nifty sheepdog, and with a few whistles and "come by"s from Karen, the sheep were soon penned in together in a milling and uncountable mass. To state an obvious truth: It's very hard to spot a limping sheep in a milling and uncountable mass. To state another obvious truth: Having spotted a limping sheep, it's very hard to keep track of it in a milling and uncountable mass. Imagine trying to keep track of one bee in a swarm! There is no easy tip or trick to counter these obstacles. You just have to dive in and grab the thing by the handles (or 'horns', as they're known when you're not trying to grab them.)

So, now I have hold of my ovine victim by the 'handles', I need to 'tip' it. "The one thing you must remember," says Karen, "is that YOU are stronger than the sheep." OK. Seems another pretty obvious truth, thinks I. Not as obvious as you might think. A sheep is pretty much a ball of muscle with a very wilful temperament. Not at all as I was expecting. They never stop struggling for a second, and they are a LOT stronger than they look. In order to 'tip' the damn things, they need to be lifted sufficiently far off the ground so that their back legs can't make contact with it, and then turned over. This needs to be in mid air, because any slightest purchase their back legs get on mother Earth is going to cause you trouble.

But eventually, I got baa-baa-black-sheep (or the 'big old whether' as Karen called it) on its bum, with its horns pressing painfully into my legs, holding onto one horn, and keeping it down with my other hand on its chest. . . and it does not stop struggling for a second. To do this single handed and shear the thing must be very hard, and to keep that up one sheep after the other all day. I have massive respect for sheep shearers.

Anyway, Karen now expertly trims the feet, sprays the various cans of spray, and I can let it go. Now to repeat the process with the next one . . . and the next . . . and so on. It occurs to me why Karen felt the need to point out that I am stronger than a sheep. I was stronger than the first one, and the second, and the third, but by the time I had half a dozen under my belt, doubts were starting to set in, I can tell you!

Still � all in all a very enjoyable and rewarding day out.