Sheep: Chapters 1–4

The second he set it down, we’d attack like a pack of ill-mannered bloodhounds. Even I would forget about making a good impression. I’d push and shove and keep my nose right in there.

We rode out through heaven, grass so green and lush you felt like chewing on it.

I raced from one side of the truck bed to the other, sticking my nose between the slats, while the land rolled on and on, not a house or barn anywhere.

I figured if worst came to worst, and the sheep wouldn’t do what I wanted, well, I’d just bite them. But I learned soon enough that wasn’t the way. Only as a last resort would a dog bite a sheep.

You could tell the sheep didn’t like it. They’d have to run a little, which they hated, so they grumbled the whole time. One old ewe really had her back up.

She gave Old Dex one last haughty look, then turned away and trotted off after the others, her fat little tail between her legs.

We all bounded back up into the truck, and as the land took that last lick of the sun, we headed home.

It was downright humiliating for a dog to be stuck like a fish or a snake inside a glass box, especially a dog of my proud lineage.

“You’re the baby, Blackie,” Penelope said, “and I’m the mommy. Now don’t wet your pants, baby, or Mommy will have to spank you!”
It just makes you cringe, doesn’t it?

It was a sorrowful existence for a pup. The glass box had been bad enough, but at least I had company.

After breakfast—more pellets—I got ready to endure another day as Baby.

I dodged and feinted, ran full speed around the yard herding imaginary sheep, then stopped on a dime and switched directions.

There I spent a fitful night, no dreams of home to ease my slumber. I’d drop off, then wake up with a start, thinking I’d heard something.

A big black truck with a rackety engine, Penelope calling “Blackie! Blackie!,” the click of a glass door shutting me in.

I was trying to decide which way to go when I caught the distinct scent of something rank and woolly. I lifted my nose, sniffed again. Sheep? Sheep!

I was trying to decide which way to go when I caught the distinct scent of something rank and woolly. I lifted my nose, sniffed again. Sheep? Sheep! The smell, terrible but wonderful for what it promised, drifted toward me.

They were harnessed all together in a long line, pulling a wagon with a little red house that sat sort of sideways on top.

“Ho, you mangy varmints!” The goats came to a jangling stop, snorting and fussing.

“Ho, you mangy varmints!” The goats came to a jangling stop, snorting and fussing.

Then while they grazed on the grass alongside the highway, the Goat Man poured me a bowl of goat’s milk, thick and tangy.

I figured sustenance was another name for the milk, but he meant more than that. He meant love and hope and that sort of thing.

“On, you huskies!” he cried, and those goats, with only a little bit of grumbling, started moving, pulling that funny red wagon house on its creaky wooden wheels.

Then the Goat Man cooked us some goat’s meat—I’ll spare you the particulars—over an open fire, turning it on a stick.

For the first time since leaving home, I slept a genuine all-out puppy sleep.

Life was one long, straight run of grass or no grass. Something to be said for the simplicity of that.

Why we stuck to the highway was a mystery to me. All that exhaust and the smell of burned rubber when he could have gone into the hills.

He taught me all I knew. Not about the sheep—Dad and Old Dex taught me that. But about philosophy, which is just a big word for big ideas. Like what things mean, and how to live the best life.

“You will journey far and wide if you make your sails of patience.”

If it snowed, we’d shelter in a barn or under a canopy of trees.

In the evening, when we’d settled ourselves at a campsite and had our dinner, the Goat Man would read us poetry by the light of the fire, or play some tunes. I liked the sound of the poetry all right, but that accordion hurt my ears.

Toward morning, when the goats were starting to rustle and snort, he picked up the story again.

With some badgering, the goats got themselves up and into a line more or less.

They were skittish, kept waiting for the Goat Man’s “On, you huskies!”

I nipped a few heels out of desperation, and at last we began to move.

We went on like that for another long day. Didn’t know what else to do, neither the goats nor me, a caravan of lost souls.