Ewe've Got to be Kidding!!!

One summer, my husband and I decided we would try our hand at raising sheep. We had heard that sheep would eat just about anything. That sounded pretty good to us, so with visions of no longer having to mow the pasture, we trekked to the local sale barn to pick out some sheep.

Only my husband had ever experienced the sights and sounds of the sale barn before.

“Mommy, what’s that smell?” my three-year-old son asked as we entered the facility.

“That’s the animals, honey,” I replied.

“They stink. Can we go home now?”

“Not until we find some sheep.”

“There’s a sheep. Let’s get that one.” He pointed to a large black-faced sheep that stared at us through the slats in its pen.

“It’s not that easy. We have to register then wait until they start the auction.”

“Can I get a hot dog?” he asked as we passed the concession stand. Seeing my opportunity to end his line of questioning, I agreed.

Before the auction began we ventured to the staging area where they kept the animals penned until they were brought into the auditorium for auction. We finished our hot dogs as we walked between the pens, looking for the ideal sheep.

“So what are we looking for?” I asked my husband as I sipped on flat, warm soda.

“Well, I thought we’d get some ewes. Then later on we can get a ram and we’ll breed them.”

“Ewes,” I said. “Those are the females, right.”

He laughed.

I slapped his arm.

“Yeah, those are the females.”

We continued our tour, pausing at each pen and noting on our registration sheet the lot numbers of those animals that passed our rigorous scrutiny, which consisted mainly of leaning over and inspecting the underside to make sure none of them had any boy parts.

“What are you looking for?” my son asked.

“We’re making sure they’re not boys,” I told him.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Well, they don’t have a penis,” I said. Having attained this vital bit of information, my son’s interest in the process renewed and he darted from pen to pen, performing his own inspection.

“This one doesn’t have a penis!” he shouted.

“Shhhh! You can tell me without shouting,” I said as several people around us started laughing.

When satisfied with our selections, we went to the auditorium to wait for the auction to begin. Soon, the auctioneer stepped up, pounded the podium with his gavel, and started chanting.

“What’s he saying, Mommy?” my son asked.

“He’s calling out the bids.”

“Can’t he say it slower? I can’t understand him,” he complained.

“No, honey, if he talked slower, it would take all day.”

“Well, I think it’s silly. I’m not going to listen,” he declared as he pulled several toy cars from his pants pockets and proceeded to drive them over the bleacher seats.

Unlike my son, my daughter was totally mesmerized with the entire proceedings. She had her own card with the chosen lot numbers checked. She studied the entire process, noting how quickly the auctioneer responded to bids and exactly what lots would be called next.

“Our sheep should be next,” the princess announced, clearly already having made an executive decision.

“They’re not our sheep yet,” I reminded her.

Sure enough, one of the lots, consisting of five ewes, entered the ring. They looked frightened as they ran in circles, stirring up dust and jumping into the fencing seeking a way out. “Mommy, are those our sheep?” my son asked.

“Maybe, if we win the bid.”

He stuffed his cars in his pockets and focused all his attention on the ring.

The bidding began.

Our tension grew as bidders dropped from the process and my husband became immersed in a bidding war with a farmer dressed in overalls. Our opponent doggedly held on, refusing to quit.

“Daddy!” Our daughter poked him, anticipating a loss. Clearly, she wanted those sheep.

The price soared way above our agreed-upon limit. “Honey, I think you need to stop,” I said as I listened to the sucking sound created by our dwindling funds.

“No, I think I can win this. This guy won’t go much higher. He’s hesitating. See how slowly he raised his hand that time.”

I sighed and went back to watching the poor sheep bounce off the fencing.

“Daddy!” my daughter gasped as our opponent bid again, pushing the price even higher.

Not to be deterred, my husband quickly raised his hand.

Collectively, we held our breath, hoping this would be the end of it. My son wanted to go home. My daughter really wanted those sheep. My husband hated to lose. And me? I didn’t want to take out a second mortgage just to pay for five lousy sheep.

I watched the other bidder’s hand start to rise. He turned and looked over his shoulder at us. I glared, sending him a clear, but polite, message, Do it and die. His hand dropped to his lap. Good man.

“Sold!” The auctioneer slammed the gavel on the podium.

“Yay!” my daughter squealed.

“Can we go now?” my son asked.

“Yeah, let’s go,” I said as I grabbed the checkbook and looked at the check register mentally calculating how many days I could float the check I was about to write.

We went back to the pens to formally greet our new little flock of sheep. My daughter stroked their pretty white faces and proceeded to give them each a name.

“How are we going to get them home?” I asked.

“I thought we’d just put them in the back of the mini van.” my husband laughed.

“They smell funny,” my son complained.

“I was just kidding. We’ll have to find someone with a trailer to haul them home for us,” my husband said.

We paid for the sheep and the clerk pointed out a man who conveniently offered his services as 'Sheep Hauler for the Woefully Unprepared'. I heard another sucking sound as once again, I pulled out the checkbook and wrote the man a check to deliver our sheep.

“You think it’s a scam?” I asked my husband as we walked away.

“No. The auction house wouldn’t recommend him if he didn’t have a good reputation,” he assured me.

Mid-morning, the next day, much to my surprise, the delivery guy arrived. My husband went outside and helped unload ‘the girls’ as we now referred to them. The kids watched with excitement as the sheep leapt from the back of the trailer and charged out to the pasture.

They looked so pretty, their large brown eyes taking in the new scenery. They bleated their approval as they set to work trimming the grass. We collectively sighed, satisfied with our accomplishment.

“Now all we need is a boy sheep and then we can have lambs,” I told the kids.

“Can we get him today?” my daughter asked, her eyes filled with excitement.

“No, not today, but soon.”

Later that day, as I prepared dinner, I heard my husband calling to me from outside in a way that indicated a dire emergency. Fearing one of our dogs had attacked the sheep, I ran outside.

“What’s wrong?” I panted as I ran up to the fence where he stood looking at the sheep. I stared at them, expecting to see blood and torn flesh, but saw only five sheep contentedly munching on grass.

“They’re wethers!” My husband slammed his hand on the fence. “I can’t believe we bought wethers.”

I stood there, completely at a loss. “Is that not a good breed?” I asked.

He laughed. “They’re castrated males. They’re not ewes.”

“But we looked!” I said, hearing once again the now-familiar sucking sound as hoped-for baby lambs leapt from the vista of my imagination and disappeared into the sunset.

“Did we pay too much?” I asked.

“Yeah, we paid too much,” he said, his jaw tight.

“Well, at least we won’t have to mow the pasture,” I said.