When Good Sheep Go Dead
Where do the hill-sheep go when they die?
Few men know of it; a few more women do although the reason for this is not clear. Noone’s done A Study although scientists think it has something to do with women’s inteweition and a Medieval spelling error that cosmically “took” somehow. But forget everything you have ever heard about mountain-sheep death rites; every myth and every legend, forget em all! For I have it on very good authority* that what follows is what really happens:
A cloud descends on a mountain, obscuring from human eyes a sheep-ritual so ancient that it is very, very old. Indeed, so incontinently old is this sheep-ritual that the first human ever to witness it was called Ug, son of Oorg, The Not Quite The Full Sapiens Yet. Within this cloud, all the mountain’s sheep gather and stand in a circle. Everyone loves a good Paaaassing.
There is no altar – however cool that would be – for an altar would remind the flock too much of the Old Testament, when their ancestors didn’t come out of things very well at all, and not a day passed when some poor wee lamb wasn’t being dragged off to a suspiciously cinematic stone slab in a wilderness somewhere. This has had many effects on the hapless sheep psyche, chief among them being that Charlton Heston is universally loathed in the ungulate world; and that the word “scape-goat” has become a highly-charged insult, spat with all the vitriol of a deep sheep suffering that man will not recognise.
“Phthoo! Scape-sheep more like!” say middle-class sheep with their sea-view rocks and pen-sheeyon-plans while, down in the ‘Hood, baaasta’s are referring to each other as “scape-gs” in much the same way as the n word is used among gangstas in South Central LA.
So, no altar then. No. There is only a simple rock or tuffet upon which an extra-wild-wooled Willer of the Weather invokes, with an eerie bleat, the Great Sheep Gods, Ovinus and Ovinia, to come for a fallen friend. (On weekends and major holidays, you get the Subbing Goddess, Mary – ah oui, she of Little Lamb fame but not of the contrarian gardening movement)
The Gods come. A great wailing and gnashing of lower incisors against upper horny pad commences. The dead sheep, now in his past tense, is brought hence from thence (over a fence.)
The cloud then lifts, carrying the soul of the debaaarted to greener pastures, where the sun always shines and every blessed and bleating heart sings sweetest music. Egg sandwiches and whiskey are passed around among the living and perhaps a few tears are shed but, for the most part, sheep are stoic and practical and not apt to wearing their hearts on their fleeces. There are always a few artsy, emotional young sheep though – known as the Bopeepians, they’re in every flock – with Ideas and harps and tie-dyed wool, trying to introduce new ideas to the proceedings, but they are in the minority, looked upon with disdain by the greater flock and, everyone agrees noddily, they are just showing off and embarrassing themselves). Sometimes the Gods stick around for this bit, ostensibly for the look of the thing but actually for the feast: the Gods are awfully fond of the hard stuff (eggs).
By the time the cloud has sailed on to the next mountain-top to collect the next given-up ghost, or stopped at the abattoir for a coach-party of souls to hop on board, all that any observer would see is a curious circle of sheep, chewing stolidly, unceasingly, starily, on wind-whipped grasses. With inexplicable bits of egg on their wool. Inexplicable, because hens don’t live on mountains. The observer – the same one – is left to wonder, for the rest of his life, about that egg, and that circle, and about that strange, faraway look** in those sheeps’ eyes…
* Mine
** Nothing mystical about this really, unless you count whiskey as mystical.
May 3rd, 2007 at 2:17 am
And you solve ANOTHER of life’s mysteries! Fantastic! You really do know an awful lot about sheep.
Those sheep, they truly are amazing creatures. I never would have thought of having egg sandwiches with whiskey. Interesting combination. Genius, some might say, whilst others say bizarre. I’m not quite sure where I stand.
May 3rd, 2007 at 4:24 am
True story (same as yours, Sam): Way back when God was in short trousers, I worked as a contract shepherd. Good money at yeaning time as I would charge per live-lamb. When the owners came to do the count they would nod off at 100 and while they slept I would write 500 on the invoice.
Anyway, once when I messed up a c-section there was nothing I could do except foster the lambs and take the ewe to the abattoir. Working 23 hours a day meant the giddiness kicked in and my helper and I used stock-markers to apply lipstick, eye-liner and blusher. Some baling twine made very pretty ribbons.
We told the guy at the abattoir to be gentle – that she was our favourite. He didn’t know whether to laugh or call the authorities.
To this day, he crosses the street to avoid me.
May 3rd, 2007 at 6:25 am
A chara, Sam. Lovely job.
As to the egg question. Should your Black/speckledy faced mountain sheep be anything like their relatives here in Connemara, and if climbing is involved. They can get to places that a fly would have difficulty standing.
Is Mise…
May 3rd, 2007 at 7:00 am
Dear PCB.
so good to see you back and hopefully restored to health. My mornings are nothing without your informative revelations.
Yours with fond wishes, Lily x
May 3rd, 2007 at 9:05 am
Oh yeah, a girl writes a loving tale about sheep and she’s applauded, but when a guy does it…
May 3rd, 2007 at 10:35 am
n-word? Nanny?
May 3rd, 2007 at 11:38 am
Nark? Do tell.
Sam I shall come back and luxuriate in your delicious prose. Every other line a delight and all chuckleworthy. I hope you are saving – burning your stuff to CD because it is all publishable and brilliant. And I’m proud of you.
‘The dead sheep, now in his past tense, is brought hence from thence (over a fence.)’
Indeed!
May 3rd, 2007 at 12:49 pm
One quick theological query: Is the whiskey single malt or double? It’s that sort of factual omission the skeptics will seize upon to poo-poo this tale, I’m afraid.
Cheers.
May 3rd, 2007 at 4:50 pm
Carolyn, Lewis blackface ewes are surprisingly able hostesses. In their upper circles it’s not uncommon to find society parties serving canapes like beluga caviar paired with tinned mandarins, or flambeed morels in a 7Up reduction. On toast. Always on wholewheat toast for its fibre. Caviar is constipating.
Sneezy, To this day, he crosses the street to avoid me.
I can’t say I blame him entirely. In fact, I think if the opportunity arises I’ll cross a street later while imagining you and your sheep-”friend” on the other side. It’s a sickness you know, but help and strong medicines are available. I can send you some leaflets if you like. I just have them, um, lying around because um I found them, yes that’s the ticket, I just found them. One day. While out.
Vince, I watched something incredible the other night on Planet Earth. It was rare footage of a snow leopard in the Himalayas chasing and catching a mountain goat. The mountainside they were running hell for leather all over was practically a sheer rock face. It looked impossible for anything to walk, far less run, on. It took my breath away.
Lilypaul, hi! Thanks for commenting! I’m only happy I can spread a little knowledge of the ancient sheep culture. During my research I had to spend many, many hours gaining their trust by mutual grooming and cud-chewing. They were initially suspicious of my omnivore dentition and vestigial canines but a little bit of filing and a midnight blood-oath never to eat mutton again proved to them I was serious about learning of their ways and pretty soon I was accepted as a member of the flock. They called me the Overcoatless One.
Kav, I know it’s a double standard but believe me there are men working tirelessly for freer relations between sheep and man. Totally platonic of course. These men want to stamp out the old suspicions and gigglings, questioning, by use of Power Point presentation, why we can’t just all grow up, and who’s that sniggering at the back? They believe that our species have much to learn from each other and have set up informal coffee-evenings in town halls throughout the land where open minded people and sheep can come and chat in a safe, non-alcoholic environment and play guitars and shit.
Docs, noodle, darling, noodle.
Pat, it’s sad, and a telling indictment on our modern times, but unfortunately I just don’t think the general public care about the plight of island sheep. Sheep are just Sunday lunch, aren’t they? Or Arran jumpers, or metaphors for dumb obeisance. People don’t want to take the time out from their busy lives to look beyond the wool. It’s too uncomfortable. There’s no market for sheep-lit, I’m afraid.
Rand, an excellent question but it’s neither. It is a special oat whiskey made from the soft island waters and some Quaker’s porridge. But let the skeptics poo-poo! Bring on the poo-pooing, I say! I will take these nay-sayers and turn them into baa-sayers, as God is my witness, I will!
May 3rd, 2007 at 6:10 pm
Thats it. I was wondering why you always find empty whiskey bottles when gallivanting about the hills. By chance, do they sometimes tuck into some crisps and Fanta, and occasionally have the abandoned rusty tractor ceremony ?
May 3rd, 2007 at 6:47 pm
“chief among them being that Charlton Heston is universally loathed in the ungulate world;”
He’s not that popular with the apes either. Cheston Harlton describes him better.
May 3rd, 2007 at 7:38 pm
STOP, walk (how many) a line. And then then,then,then the cat. ….I knew they had been places. (M A bAAAH WITHOUT THE FLAGS). Female with a man chin.
May 4th, 2007 at 1:54 am
I bow to the mastery.
A great post, Saaaaam. Thought I had something witty to add, but I got mutton.
oh god.
May 4th, 2007 at 11:17 am
In my youth I earned quite a good deal of pocket money cutting sheep out of briars. They’re really not as smart as you might think.
May 4th, 2007 at 5:55 pm
Why don’t hens live on mountains? Are they too flat footed? It’s really the only way they’ll ever get a decent view. Someone should talk to them.
May 4th, 2007 at 7:05 pm
Ah, go hiontach, a chailin!
It reminds me of that cult movie from the seventies. The Wicker Sheep.
Isn’t it spooky how you get a puncture in the middle of nowhere, and you walk into a bar, and all the sheep in the bar stop playing cards and turn around to look at you?
Silently.
Boohoohoohoohahahaha!
May 4th, 2007 at 7:45 pm
Well, I never thought about that before. Will wonders ever cease?
May 4th, 2007 at 9:52 pm
John Mc, Don’t laugh but I gave my brother a black and white picture of an old rusty tractor with grass growing out of it for his wedding present. It seemed to speak so much about…something or other. And for a complete non-sequitur, don’t you think that one of the best things about living in the US is Jelly Belly jelly beans? I forget about them and then every so often rediscover them with glee. I’ve just had a toasted coconut and dammit if these geniuses at JB haven’t nailed that toasty coconut deliciousness!
Nanas, I knew you’d feel similarly about ole Chuckton Buckshot Peston. You hairy apes can smell out the wrong’uns much better than we naked apes. We could smell his cold dead hand though, I expect, after a bit, the one he’s going to have his gun pried out of.
Vince, you know, my friend, sometimes I have no idea what you’re on about but I love your comments. I regard it as a flaw in myself that I don’t understand what you just said. Was it good or bad?
Aaaaaaandraste, darling, well might you invoke the Lord – ewe ought to feel udderly sheepish after a joke as baaaad as that. Which I laughed at, so I’ll be a-lambenting our punnery in the pewe beside ewe at the chaaapel.
fmc, I spent a few summers untangling sheep from fences and trying to teach them that horns go through fence, yes; but horns no come back through fence, no, no, no. Yet all the time I thought they were putting on an act. Behaviour like that and trying to outstare a car coming at 50 mph down a single lane road must be part of a larger plan to let us think they’re dumber than mud. Then, come the revolution, we’ll be so dumbstruck at their ability to come up with a sheepifesto of any sort that, before we know it they’ll have stormed the town-hall and set in motion an Orwellian nightmare, an Orwellian nightmare with a wooly jumper. I never earned any money from it, for Scots are penurious and believe child-labour is character-building. They’re only sorry now they see the character I built.
Kara, have you ever seen the fallen arches on a hen? In Britain the National Hen Service won’t even provide them with orthotics, thereby dening them their God-given rights to scale mountains and enjoy views. Not being able to enjoy views is extra disheartening if you’re a bird who already can’t fly. No self-esteem, chickens. Meth use is rampant.
Bock, …and all you hear is the ticking of the clock on the wall and then a quiet, blood-chilling click which you just know was the key turning in the lock of the only exit in the room. You’re right – there was never again another cult movie genre like the sheep cult movie genre.
Sassy, how ya doing, girl? I don’t think wonders will ever cease. It’s all a flippin’ wonder from dawn to dusk and even then it’s still all a wonder only in the dark. I watched that Planet Earth episode on caves the other week and saw these animals that live their whole lives in darkness for generations and generations such that they have completely lost their eyes. Anyone doubting evolution should see these creatures, eyeless cave salamanders and blind snakes in the dark who snatch cave-bats out of the pitch black air using other senses. It’s the very extreme of adaptation to their environment because you can see these creatures once had eyes but then evolution honed their other more necessary senses for the dark, getting rid of the eyes altogether. It’s an amazing series. I’ve been yammering on about it before somewhere. Give it a shot if you haven’t already. It’s hard not to be gobsmacked by it.
May 5th, 2007 at 6:45 am
Oh well , I come here and read and don’t know what to say really apart from great stories……….and you sure know alot about sheeeeep .
May 5th, 2007 at 7:30 am
I was pot holing years back near Yorkshire and the holes you climb into are full of sheep skulls and bones, stupid animals then again I was going doon into the hole for fun so I’m not too bright either.
May 5th, 2007 at 8:54 am
Good, of course, [Vince, I watched something incredible the other night on Planet Earth. It was rare footage of a snow leopard in the Himalayas chasing and catching a mountain goat. The mountainside they were running hell for leather all over was practically a sheer rock face. It looked impossible for anything to walk, far less run, on. It took my breath away.] They should be in one of the recent films from china.
May 5th, 2007 at 2:03 pm
I’ve always wondered why sheep have such eggy wool and now you’ve enlightened me, Sam. Would you mind explaining next why every time I’m sick there are diced carrots in it even if I haven’t been eating them?
May 5th, 2007 at 9:03 pm
“Debaarted.”
Snort.
May 5th, 2007 at 10:54 pm
One of my colleagues at work has a Jelly Baby dispenser in his office. Me and one of the guys on my team do periodic raids – we also figure out reasons for useless meetings with him.
May 5th, 2007 at 11:50 pm
Nadine, legend has it that all Islanders with an M in their surname are at least one seven hundred and forty-twoeth sheep. As to the truth of that I couldn’t say but it would explain why Lewis manes cannot be tamed by even today’s most expensive hair-products. Critics would say the point has never been tested as we are too cheap to buy the most expensive hair products, but we all have our critics, alas.
Old Knudsen, why would anyone drill holes in pots? Why would sheep?
Vince, I believe they’re in contract discussions as we speak.
Foots, sweet Foots, you have returned from the wilderness to describe your vomit. I’m glad the time away hasn’t changed you.
PS. They’re not carrots. They’re pancreas parts. (Didn’t they teach you about the pancreas parts-vomit connection in med-school?) But that’s fine, really. Worry only when you see pea-like things in there. They won’t be peas.
Mom 101, was that a labour snort? It’s any day now, gal, isn’t it? Take care and all best luck to you, Liz. It’ll be lovely to welcome your new wee one into the world when the time comes. I have my welcome drink all picked out: a pink gin – for a girl. Any name epiphanies yet?
John, I covet that dispenser.
May 6th, 2007 at 4:15 pm
I was told on good authority, if a sheep was good it would come back as a wild haggis in its next life
May 6th, 2007 at 9:54 pm
Hi Sami,
sorry for this shamefully non bolg-related comment but had to write to a fellow Leodhasach to say that I am a little homesick all of a sudden as I have just been surfing MySpace and been listening to William Campbell and Kevin Macneil’s stuff and have also had a couple of glasses of vino which in my relatively post-baby and therefore usually teetotal condition has sent me off on a tiny wee jibbering squiffy ‘I love Lewis, sob’ spaceship. Actually, I think it’s the fault of severe sleep deprivation and not the wine. Anyhoo, hope you are well, m’dear. Be lovely to see you this year! Hugs. x
May 7th, 2007 at 3:22 pm
Happy Bank Holiday Sam! I met an apiarist today but our swarm had goneth.
May 8th, 2007 at 9:27 am
Lovely story telling as ever Sam. I love the middle class sheep ref, that made me chuckle.
I was reading about a shepherd the other day, can’t know temember where, but he saidthe mama hill sheep know all the best pasture and guide the flock around, especially in lean times -pretty much like elephant matriachs do. So foot and mouth was tragic as it wiped out the knowledge at a stroke, a big like killing of all London cabbies who do the knowledge!
I remember now the skill is called “the heft” Here’s a wee Cumbrian bit on it:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cumbria/sense_of_place/prog_3.shtml
May 8th, 2007 at 9:28 am
Lovely story telling as ever Sam. I love the middle class sheep ref, that made me chuckle.
I was reading about a shepherd the other day, can’t now temember where, but he said the mama hill sheep know all the best pasture and guide the flock around, especially in lean times – pretty much like elephant matriachs do. So foot and mouth was tragic as it wiped out the knowledge at a stroke, a bit like killing of all London cabbies who’ve done the knowledge!
I remember now the skill is called “the heft”. Here’s a wee Cumbrian bit on it:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cumbria/sense_of_place/prog_3.shtml
May 8th, 2007 at 6:46 pm
Kim, you mean you fell for that old chestnut? Nononono – they come back as jackalopes, bounding and horny.
Dear Squiffy Fluffag, are you going to Ian M’s wedding in September? (The 8th I think.) I think I’m coming over for that. I’d love to see you all and meet wee Roise!
Pat, no bank holiday here, but Memorial Day soon, to kick off summer. Something awful is happening to the bees. For real. They’re disappearing and nobody knows why. It’s called Catastrophic Colony Collapse or something and we’re all in big trouble if bees aren’t pollinating. We don’t have any substitute for them. They also get disorientated by cell-phone signals and fly the wrong way and stuff.
Apprentice, I didn’t know that. I’m not surprised to learn though that the ewes are the keepers of the knowledge though. The ewes have it, as the ayes often do. But not the Yous or the Is. The ewes. With their eyes. Cheers for the link. Off for a gander at the heft.
May 8th, 2007 at 6:52 pm
Anna, great link! Ta. Poor little sheep have lost their heft and don’t know where to go! Apparantly leaving them alone til they come home wagging their tails behind them won’t help either. I love the idea of all these farmers trying to get into the mind of a sheep to teach them the heft. Penetrating the skull will be the hardest part.
May 10th, 2007 at 3:52 pm
Not expecting an invite, Sam, so don’t think we’ll see you there, though hopefully we’ll catch you at some point when you’re over the pond. I like your Sheep Stories by the way!
July 13th, 2007 at 10:56 am
To respond to one of the responses above:
Wild haggis are not sheep, and they never were sheep. Wild haggis are lovable creatures who should be given good homes.