Sheepish
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by Catherine Friend
Title Page
Dedication
PART ONE - The Muffins Go Farming
Shocking
Sheepishness
No Snowballs on This Farm
Getting Naked
Freakishly Exotic People
Spinning in Circles
Sheep Sex and Other Natural Disasters
The Failed Environmentalist
Minnesota Cranky
The King and I
Brokeback Farm
Searching for Memoirs by Moonlight
PART TWO - Telling Farm Tales
To Sproing and Worfl
The First Pasture Goddess
My Nursery
A Gaggle of Goddesses
A Cure for Writer’s Block
Enough Happy Endings?
Does This Bale Make Me Look Fat?
Tending the Vineyard
The Perfect Nest
The Farmer’s Wife
Just Ducky
The Incredible Shrinking Jeans
This Is Your Brain on Oxytocin
PART THREE - Spinning Yarns
Woolology 101
Turquoise Treasure
Super Sheep
The Fuzzy Patriots
The Queen of Do-It-Yourself
Greener Than You Think
And Photogenic, to Boot
Of Warp and Woof
Counting Bed Mites
A Recipe for Carpal Tunnel
The Stealthy Flock
Re-cycle. Re-create. Re-enjoy.
We Are the Champions (of Sheep)
I’d Turn Back If I Were You
PART FOUR - Unravel
Something’s Up
Adventures of the Backup Farmer
Holy Hanky Panky, Batman
Dividing Up the Cake
More Babies
Not Exactly a Goddess
Focus on Feet
My Head Is Full of Colors
An Intimate Secret
PART FIVE - The Love of You Sings
Real, Not Virtual
Wave of the Future
Listening to Sheep
Yain: Slow down and focus on the basics
Tain: Do one thing at a time
Eddero: Practice gazing
Peddero: Overdose on oxytocin
Rhubarb Sauce and Candy Corn
Freaks ‘R’ Us
Sheepish and Proud
Acknowledgements
Sheepish Mitten and Hat Patterns
Copyright Page
Praise for Sheepish
“Sheepish is as smart and funny as its title. Catherine Friend takes us along on her quest to master the other ‘oldest profession.’ Warning: It may make you want to drop everything and go tend a flock.”
—Meg Daly Olmert, author of Made for Each Other:
The Biology of the Human-Animal Bond
“Wry, witty, and honest, Sheepish describes a magical personal transformation—from urban to rural. Catherine Friend finds meaning in the middle of life, love, and even knitting projects. Friend brings out the urge to farm in knitters, spinners, and ‘fiber freaks’ everywhere, teaching us to find joy and contentment in the small, sheepy parts of our world.
—Joanne Seiff, author of Fiber Gathering and Knit Green
Praise for Hit by a Farm
“A charming memoir ... [with] magical moments.”
—New York Times Book Review
“A thoroughly engaging romp for all. This is a must-read for any city girl who’s ever whiled away an hour or two dreaming about the bucolic existence of her rural sisters.”
—Bust
“Heartening, sweet, earthy, funny—a joy to read from start to finish.”
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“A funny farming guide: a book about two women who decide to go back to the land—and discover the realities of the land’s hardships for nonrural residents. Whether it’s dealing with broken fences and boundaries, stubborn sheep, or sheep who are gazelles in sheep’s clothing, Hit by a Farm is filled with fun moments, accounts of overwork and mishaps, and more.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A multi-mood, clever and unpredictable tale of what makes farm life far from mundane and sheltered ... Hit by a Farm slyly educates as it entertains, heals as it humors us while wading through issues of confrontation, complications, and compromise ... a treasure.”
—Madison Capital Times
Praise for The Compassionate Carnivore
“Smart, personal, and funny, The Compassionate Carnivore will make you want to hug a cow—and order a ribeye.”
—Women’s Health
“[Friend’s] words give hope to those of us who crave meat, but are sickened by some modern farming practices.”
—Curve
“The Compassionate Carnivore is both an entertaining memoir and a chapter-by-chapter breakdown of how America raises its meat.... Yes, much of this is as grim as it is familiar—but Friend manages to make it lively and even funny without burying her essential moral seriousness.”
—Culinate
“I loved Catherine Friend’s philosophy on how to be a compassionate carnivore, and I cried when I read the chapter ‘Letter to My Lambs.’ It really is possible to deeply care about animals and eat meat.”
—Temple Grandin, author of Animals in Translation
“Full of interesting facts . . . ”
—Guardian
“Friend’s direct, yet tactful approach will educate without making the reader feel judged for their decision to be a carnivore. It’s an informative and at times funny approach to get people to think about what they eat and the process meat goes through before it gets to your freezer. Our choices have an effect not just on the animals, but on our health and environment. If you have been struggling with eating meat for health reasons or personal convictions, The Compassionate Carnivore will help you.”
—Blogcritics
“Filled with insightful and often humorous anecdotes. When not horrifying me with various practices of making meat ready for market ... Friend had me roaring with laughter.... Backed by research, practical experience, and the desire to improve standards, Friend offers many sound suggestions. If more carnivores demand humanely raised meat, the supply will hopefully follow.”
—Story Circle Book Reviews
“In this deeply personal account of her involvement in the humane raising of sheep, self-described shepherd, animal lover, and committed carnivore Catherine Friend leads us through the lives of meat animals—in our industrial food system, and on her farm—with metaphor, compassion, and wit. A rich and enjoyable read.”
—Joan Dye Gussow, author of This Organic Life
Also by Catherine Friend
Nonfiction
Hit by a Farm: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Barn
The Compassionate Carnivore, Or How to Keep Animals Happy, Save Old MacDonald’s Farm, Reduce Your Hoofprint, and Still Eat Meat
Novels
The Spanish Pearl
The Crown of Valencia
A Pirate’s Heart
Children’s
The Perfect Nest
Eddie the Raccoon
Silly Ruby
Funny Ruby
The Sawfin Stickleback: A Very Fishy Story
My Head Is Full of Colors
For our pasture goddesses
Amelia Hansa, Mary Hoff, and Bonnie Mueller
We are all sheep mad in this part of the country, and I am really become very sheepish myself.
—WILLIAM THORNTON,
IN A LETTER TO HIS FELLOW SHEPHERD
THOMAS JEFFERSON, MAY 10, 1810
PART ONE
The Muffins Go Farming
Shocking
Hang warning signs on the electric fence at critical areas where children or untrained adults will encounter the fence.
—PREMIER ONE FENCE SUPPLIES
The man and woman are young, perhaps in their late twenties, and I’m giving them a brief tour of our farm before we transact business—they’re here to buy beef. As we stand near the fence watching the sheep, the man looks down at the smooth wire running from post to post.
“Is this electric?”
I nod. There’s a yellow sign hanging from the top wire about thirty feet away. The sign says, “Warning: Electric Fence.”
“What happens if I touch it?”
I look straight at him and tighten my jaw so I won’t laugh. The nearest sheep chews her cud and eavesdrops. She is No. 66, the eldest of the flock, which means she’s been around the pasture a few times. I know what she’s thinking as she watches the man fixate on the fence: And people think we’re stupid?
I turn back to the young man. “The fence charger pulses one second on, one second off, so you have a fifty-fifty chance of nothing happening. Or 5,000 volts could race up your arm, surge through your chest and down your legs into the ground.”
He can’t take his eyes off the fence. “Would it hurt?”
The guy’s wife rolls her eyes. “Honey, don’t touch the fence.”
I explain that yes, it will hurt. It won’t kill him, but he might cry out for his mommy for the first time in years. I try to move the couple back toward the driveway, but the man remains transfixed. I sigh.
After fifteen years on this farm, I’ve been zapped repeatedly by this fence, sometimes in very private places. Every animal on this farm respects the fence. When lambs are young they cluster close to the fence, investigating. One will eventually touch a wire with its wool-free nose, shoot straight up in the air, bleat louder than it’s ever bleated before, then race for Mama. The rest of the lambs scatter in panic, and just like that, they’ve been trained. That slender wire is now Scary Place, to be avoided at all costs.
Our border collie, Robin, understands the fence. In his prime, that guy could jump fences. After we’d finish herding the sheep into new pasture, he’d stand at the thirty-two-inch wire fence, watching me in anticipation, then I’d give the command “Over,” and he’d leap like a gazelle, clearing those electric fences by at least a foot. It was an impressive sight.
Robin did this partly because he was so athletic and graceful, but also because over the years he’d developed a healthy respect for the electric fence and knew that if he didn’t clear the fence, a scary jolt of something painful would follow.
One winter day after Robin and I had done chores, I asked him to cross the fence he’d jumped dozens of times before. Unfortunately, the ice or snow affected his launch, so as he leaped, it became clear he wasn’t going to make it all the way over. I knew it. He knew it.
That was why he started screaming in midair, knowing his tender belly (or his even more tender private boy parts) were about to land on a pulsing 5,000-volt fence. His front feet landed on the ground, and sure enough, his hips hung up on the top wire. The poor guy was draped over the fence, really screaming now.
I stood there, waiting, since I knew something he didn’t. The electricity was off.
In a few seconds he figured it out and stopped screaming. He gave a few kicks to get off the wire, then walked over to a pile of snow and peed in a manly way.
We haven’t spoken of the incident since.
My partner, Melissa, has regular but always surprising contact with the fence. One spring day, I’m on one side of a nonelectric red metal gate and she’s on the other. We’re talking about how strong the fence current is this year, almost 8,000 volts instead of the usual 5,000. I’m about to reach through the gate and hug her when she suddenly screams, flings herself back, rolls twice, then curls up in a ball in the grass. There is a fencing switch near the gate, and Melissa has accidentally touched a hot bolt with her wrist. I’m so sorry she’s been shocked. I’m also a bit relieved we weren’t touching when it happened, since one should take the concept of sharing only so far. I murmur sympathetically through the gate, afraid to touch it in case it’s hot. After a few moans she climbs to her feet, shakes herself, and takes some deep breaths.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I feel rebooted,” she says. She’s amazing. Shoot 8,000 volts through her entire body, and she’s on her feet in minutes, rebooted and refreshed.
I don’t share these stories with the young man and his wife because he doesn’t want to hear them. The man leans over to examine the top wire. Electricity is invisible, which makes it really hard to believe in.
“Will it hurt much?” Because people are fascinated by farms, we want visitors to feel comfortable establishing a connection with ours on any level. This guy wants not just an emotional contact, but a literal one as well.
I shrug. “I find it unpleasant.”
He reaches out and touches the fence. Nothing happens. Because he isn’t going to be satisfied until he’s been shocked, he touches the fence again.
The guy leaps back, clutching his hand, too stunned to swear. His eyes expand from human eyes to wildly spinning cartoon eyes. If I hadn’t been standing there, he might have folded himself into his wife’s arms and whimpered.
“You okay?”
“Oh yeah, sure.” The guy, now trained to the fence, straightens his manly shoulders and ambles away, in need of a private moment.
The word most people would use to describe the expression on his face is “sheepish.”
Sheepishness
“The Things We Do for Love”
—SONG BY 10CC
Most of us use the word “sheepish” to mean embarrassed, ashamed, or chagrined. Sheep, however, are never embarrassed, ashamed, or chagrined. Not ever. So this definition makes absolutely no sense.
Instead of interpreting the “-ish” suffix to mean “like,” as in “like a sheep,” another possibility is “of or belonging to.” Think: Spanish—of or belonging to Spain. Danish—of or belonging to fruit-filled pastries.
Sheepish—of or belonging to sheep.
Sixteen years ago I was not at all sheepish. I was bookish, libraryish, wine-and-appetizer-ish. Decidedly unsheepish. My only exposure to sheep was as a child visiting my grandmother’s sheep ranch in southeastern Montana—lots of dust, lots of heat, and every now and then a little orphan lamb that I could help Grandma feed with a bottle. My grandmother left the ranch when I was a teenager, so sheep played no role in my life after that.
As an adult, I met Melissa through a personal ad, the pre-Internet method for dating. She and I were totally different, not two people who should build a life together, so we fell in love and did precisely that. We led fairly boring, urban lives for over ten years while I discovered writing and Melissa cultivated her love of land and animals and caring for both.
Then, out of the blue, Melissa asked me if I would help her start a farm.
I gave her question some thought. I knew nothing about animals, I didn’t like hard labor, and I didn’t like getting my hands dirty. “Sure,” I said, “let’s start a farm.” Less than two years later, I was plopped down into the middle of a strange, undiscovered country filled with sheep, lambs, goats, llamas, chicken poop, and more blood than I was comfortable with. As new farmers, we amused our friends and family with creative disasters. We accidentally overdosed and nearly killed all our sheep one week. We forgot to check the oil in the tractor engine, with quite expensive results. Melissa nearly shish-kebabed herself when a sharp-toothed implement called a drag crawled up behind her on the tractor. I cleverly planted 200 grapevines upside down. We had to learn about sheep and duck penises. That I even know about pizzle rot disturbs me. We healed the sick animals we could and buried those we couldn’t. We committed to raising sheep the old-fashioned way, letting them graze fresh grass every day, letting them give birth outside in the spring instead of i
nside a barn during the winter.
Everything was new. The first time Melissa left our animals in my care, she called me the next morning from her brother’s house in Illinois, her voice as casual as she could make it. “So, how are the animals?”
“Oh yeah, about that,” I replied, voice just as calm. “They’re all dead.”
Sharp inhale. Long pause. Weak laugh.
“Ha. Very funny. You had me going there.”
I puffed up with pride because it’s really difficult to stun Melissa. After that, whenever Melissa leaves the farm overnight, she calls the next day and inquires after the animals.
“All dead,” I reply sadly.
“Okay,” she says. “Good job.” Farmers are far too comfortable with black humor.
Melissa and I eventually moved away from the chaos. The farm found its rhythm and beat steadily, a comfort to us both. We moved from neophytes to experienced farmers. We raised animals and tended a one-acre vineyard. We acquired dozens of satisfied lamb customers, and vegetarian neighbors who bought most of our eggs.
As one who raises sheep, I call myself a shepherd. I also call myself Mrs. Muffin. Our friend Mary H. has known Melissa since the second grade. When they get together, forty years slide off to reveal two eight-year-olds. They have nicknames for each other and can spend two hours on the phone without either of them taking a breath. I once found them in the kitchen wearing aluminum foil caps to protect their brains from the shrill whistle of our teakettle. Clearly it was too late; the damage had already been done.
One day I need to call Mary, so I use Melissa’s cell phone.
“Muffin!” Mary crows, thinking she has Melissa on the phone.