Famous last words…

I on numerous occasions have stated that I would rather take my chances with an angry bull than a poorly trained dog. When looked at in the singular sense, I continue to stand by that comment; however one must always remember to account for context and situational circumstances…

 

When we were still working on developing a small acreage parcel here in the North Carolina High Country into a destination bed and Breakfast with a restaurant and winery/vineyards we had the daunting task of bringing 7 acres of fallowed land under control. Now realize that in this part of the world when land lays fallow for more than two years there are three things that grow prolifically and out of control; all three have intense thorns that are hazardous to one’s well being in the same context of nuclear discharges. Wild Roses being the mildest of the three, followed by black berries, and the most severe being black locusts saplings. Any one point on the property had these pesky botanical specimens flourishing with a canopy of no less than eight feet in height.

 

Our initial efforts were focused on hand clearing the property boundaries, but that dream of controlling brush rapidly faded as we were bleeding to death from festering thorn wounds. Our next attempt at weed control was a bush hog (a big assed mower mounted on and powered by a tractor). These method proved even more devastating to our flesh as the beastly botanical specimens aforementioned would reach around and grab you in the nape of the neck; ripping skin to shreds before one could manage to find, let alone hit the brakes.

 

Well, needless to say that this provided a rather delicate situation for us as my NYC-born, Philly-raised partner – turned earth hugging hippie insisted we find an “earth-friendly” way to rid ourselves of these man eating weeds on the property. The solution this farm boy finally sold the Yankee on was goats. These ravenous creatures were masters at reducing the canopy of thorn riddled pest-plants to stubble, but being goats, they didn’t manicure the lawn as my precious other half expected them to do.

 

Hence, to reduce the stubble from knee height to the ground, I explained we would have to attain a flock of sheep. (This was long before Brokeback  Mountain; we were gay shepherds before it was cool!) I decided the breed we needed would be the Jacob Sheep and located some not too far away and went down to get the first batch. Scott found them interesting, but they weren’t what he thought about when he thought about sheep as they were white with black spots and had 2, 4, 5, or 6 horns. He was rather adamant that in order to market ourselves as a working farm, with sheep, we had to have at least a few of the white, fuzzy creatures people thought of as sheep… I tried to explain that they were more disease prone and frustrating to manage, but to no avail, my little city boy knew what was best. So, I was off again to find more sheep, this time white, fuzzy, Mary had a Little Lamb Sheep.

 

We got two of these white, fuzzy, Mary had Little Lambs and brought them back to the property where we placed them into a corral where they would be allowed to interact with the Jacobs for a week or so before being turned out to pasture with them. Now recall my other half was born in NYC and Raised in Philly where he didn’t discover chickens don’t naturally occur in cellophane wrap until later in life; this same city slicker proclaimed that we should just open the gate and they would go play with the other sheep.

 

Before the word “NO!” could be uttered the gate was flung open and the damnedable white, fuzzy, Mary had a Little Lambs saw an opportunity and bound through the opening, jumped the fence and proceeded to trot down the driveway. We followed in hopes that an opportunity to corner them, or turn them back towards the pasture would occur; it didn’t. They headed across one property and down yet another rough-cut path and through a fence. At this point one became entangled in the fence and I got a hold of her and sent her and Scott back to the pasture with two instructions: 1) she goes into the corral with a closed gate, and 2) bring the truck back.

 

As he heads back with dumb-ass sheep #1, I continue the pursuit of Dumb-ass sheep #2 who was aptly named later Lucy (short for Lucifer). I get about half way across this pasture when I spot her; and a herd of about 24-100 steer. Evidentially, Steer are still pissed off about loosing their balls and do not like lambs as the turn and charge at Lucy who leaps through another fence leaving the steer to focus their attention upon none other than ME. When you’re in the middle of a cleared pasture with no trees, no fence line closer than the one on the other side of the herd and lots of snorting and ground pawing you no this can’t come be a good situation.

 

As I started feeling that warm tingly feeling of pissing on myself; the bull of the pasture started the herds charge. In those fleeting moments of the charge starting, the piss stopping and that distinct smell of fresh shit in my pants…I was trying to figure out how bad that many big cattle trampling my skinny ass was going to hurt. At some point, fear fades and adrenaline prevails…lucky me, right?

 

Lots of shouts at the top of my lungs, lots of arm waving and probably some guardian angel laughing his head off and about five to ten feet before they reach me they stop dead in their tracks. I made it over the fence and climbed through falling to the ground in relief with the realization that the white, fuzzy, Mary had a Little Lamb lamb was the reason for this and it was all Scotts fault and now I had no idea where this white, fuzzy, Mary had a Little Lamb lamb was. Then I saw the weeds over in the Christmas tree farm of yet another property moving. It had to be her so I dragged my tired messed up pants ass over there and just took a leap pf faith that I was going to land don this white, fuzzy, Mary had a Little Lamb lamb and catch her – which to my good fortune I s what happened. Although after the beginning of that misadventure, I’m amazed I didn’t land on a black bear or something along those lines.

 

Oh, and at this point, I finally get over to where the truck and Scott should be waiting to give me and Lucy a ride back over to our place… what do I find? The truck, wedged between two locust trees and off the path. We had to then get a neighbor and his tractor to pull us out of that. Good thing I love my city-boy Scott, otherwise I would have fired him as an assistant shepherd and trampled him that afternoon.

 

The point being, from time to time in life we all have to face a bull charging at us; when that happens it I s far easier to assess the situation and make yourself appear larger than life and face it head on. In most instances, the charge will be far worse than the actual outcome making life a lot more bearable.

 

 

P.S. If you ever want sheep, don’t get the white, fuzzy, Mary had a Little Lambs; they’re dumb as bricks… And cost you a lot more in blood than they are worth!