Jason, our six-year-old, came five years ago from a shelter in Western Sydney. He’d been found in a rocky, swampy, otherwise-empty lot, lost or abandoned, we’ll never know which, and needed to be quarantined and his rotting feet carefully tended.
Three weeks in his own nook under the southern side of the house, with a small yard to graze in, and we were able to release him into the paddock with our other three. When the time came to find him another home, we couldn’t let him go. It’s probably a consequence of his swampy beginnings that he loves drizzly days. He’ll take cover when it’s heavy, but light rain is his joy. And getting into things. He’s discovered how to break into the feed-room; he’s worked out how to twist the writing-room door-knob in his mouth and, when he gets it just right, let himself in to investigate the sofa, though most days he’ll just come to the door, with or without the others, and kick it with his hoof (how else is a sheep to knock?) until I open it and give him some peanuts.
His curiosity’s unlimited. He’s always the first to greet a guest, human or otherwise. He loves lemon-tree leaves and the taste of fresh paint, if he can get to it, green for preference. In March this year he led a short revolt, refusing to go into the enclosure with the others at dusk (for their protection: there are wild dogs about), and, over the next few nights, persuaded the others to join him. Then, his point made, led them back in. The pattern of his wool, on drizzly days, is magical. He’s starting, at the edges of his mouth, to show the first signs of grey.