Sheep at the Camp

Last week a guest minister visited and spoke on the metaphor of christians as sheep and Jesus as our shepherd.  He addressed the traditional image with a very different cant, that of the sheep as a rather stupid animal, not smart enough to move on to fresh grass or avoid its own excrement.  There was an uneasiness in the church to be sure.  I flashed back to the story of Willard and the Summer of Sheep on Gohere Bay.

In the Great North Woods, challenges abound in the most mundane of tasks.  Maintaining a tidy lawn is near the top of the list.  An inconsistency exists in growth patterns day to day and spot to spot.  The rolling hills and random granite outcrops make for tedious and challenging work, not to mention the danger of flying rock chips and tragically mangled blades. 

It was during the winter months that Willard was struck with the idea of sheep to keep the grass under control.  A few telephone calls and he located a local shepherd who would be glad to spare a few sheep for the summer.  There would be no charge, Willard would keep the sheep fed and the wool would grow on its own.  This was symbiosis at its economic finest.  No more paying guide's wages to have the lawn mowed.

In April, once the Camp was open, boats in, docks repaired and such, Willard and Mary drove toward Rainy River to collect their sheep.  The new Hudson rode smoothly on a bright, if chilly, day.  The heater kept the pair toasty warm as they listened to radio news on the rolling hills of nortwestern Ontario.  They eased onto the dirt road of the sheep farm and rolled up alongside a barn.  Ed, the sheep farmer, stuck out a grimy calloused hand in greeting then walked with Mary and Willard to a pen with about ten sheep. 

"Take yer pick," he offered in a stiff accent.  Mary tried to find a 'cute' one while the asked Willard when the truck was coming by. 
"Truck?" asked Willard.  "No truck, I only taking two or three." 
"Have it yer way," replied the farmer and pulled a couple gunny sacks from a pile on the ground.  He opened the gate and made his way into the pen then stopped and stared at the couple.  "Ain't ya gonna help?"

Willard and Mary looked at each other, Willard in a sport coat and Mary in a dress, then slogged into the pen.  For the next hour, they chased the rain-slicked animals around the pen.  The task seemed simple enough, grab a sheep, throw the burlap sack over the back legs and tie the drawstring around its middle.  This turned out to be a bit more challenging with legs and hooves flying, teeth gnashing an a muddy pen filled with piles of sheep dip. 

Finally, they stood alongside the pen, tired and covered in muddy sweat, the April air beginning to chill around them as the sun faded.  In the back seat of the new Hudson were three sheep, bound at the mid-section, bleeting and thrashing, hooves tearing at the upholstery, teeth tearing at the seatbacks.  Willard and Mary climbed in the front seat, avoiding heads peering over the seats.  The bleeting and baah-ing overpowered the radio.  They discovered stress also has an odd effect on sheep.  The drive seemed much longer with open windows as the heater struggled to keep up with the spring chill. 

Back at camp, the sheep were barely more useful than in the car.  Sheep prefer tender grass, like that which grows near the edge of the path, worn by shoes of guests and staff.  They practically lived in the path and, in doing so, felt no need to wander far to deposit their life-promoting fertilizer to be spread on the shoes of guests and staff.  All around the island, the grass grew faster than ever, thanks to the excess fertilizer being spread by the unwilling staff and guests, while along the path, the grass was kept short and tidy.

Sheep, it turns out, do not like to move a whole lot.  They tend to believe they are entitled to their position and other critters, and people, should just go around them.  And they are not friendly if one disagrees with their perspective.  In short, sheep are not as cute as folk would believe if they had never experienced them first-hand.

Finally, around July, just as the smell of damp wool permeated the camp, the farmer came to check on his sheep.  Willard happily loaded them into a boat and sent them away, happy to pay guide's wages to have the lawn mowed and the sheep gone.