Mumma

We have some sheep. They keep the grass down and, as it happens, keep us entertained with their lambs – hysterical creatures with their knobbly knees and lunatic gambolling.

Only two of the twenty-odd adult sheep have names: one came to us with the name Nugget, reflecting his unwillingness to be told what to do. The other I have named in the wake of the lamb influx. She is Mumma.

Mumma is the ugliest sheep in the mob. What remains of her mystifying half-fleece dangles on the ground. She has bulbous eyes and a growth on her neck.

But she has the funniest personality of all of them. She will eat from our hands, get under our feet when we feed out hay and is reluctant to move away if we approach. We can scratch her behind the ears and she will run for great distances, her lamb struggling to keep up, if she thinks we have food.

It’s a salient reminder for me, this utterly unappealing and undesirable sheep with the best and most delightful qualities.

What was that thing about books and covers?

Until later,

Kirsten