Counting Sheep

In the beginning there was Dolly.

The original Dolly the sheep was, you’ll remember, cloned. This Dolly’s genesis is even more impressive – she was immaculately conceived.

The field behind Garden Cottage was rented to a keeper of rare-breed sheep. This spinster population, with its dark brown fleeces, white blazes, and long fluffy white-tipped bottle-brush tails, were virgin ewes. One, however, was later found to be mysteriously pregnant - father unknown. The resulting lamb was adopted, and christened, by Rupert and Jo.

In due course, and by more conventional means, Dolly begat Molly and Dolly and Molly between them begat Polly and Holly. All very Jolly, but then Holly (or possibly Polly) succumbed to a virus. Being a pampered pet rather than livestock, she received the finest medical attention, but perished.

Jo asked the vet how best to dispose of the remains of her Loved One, and he recommended a specialist. The specialist, having mistaken Holly for just another dead sheep, flung the carcase into a skip, causing Jo to go into hysterics. The corpse was duly rescued and given a decent Christian burial at home.

So now there are three: Dolly, Molly and (I think) Polly. Rupert has built a beautiful timber and brick barn, one half of which he uses as a Summer workshop and party venue; the other half as a sheepfold. A couple of hurdles divide the two activities, and man and sheep make a charming group as straw, wood-shavings, droppings and cigar smoke intermingle.

When they find time for a bit of outdoor living, the sheep stand together on the ridge of a strip of field acquired specially for them, simpering like Three Little Mikado Maids in a row, or in times of stress (sheep have a lot of these), taking turns to stand meerkat-like on sentry duty, eyeing me malevolently.

Having moved from quartet to trio, Rupert and Jo have decided three is enough. So, barring another immaculate conception, there will never be a flock.

This is a shame. I was looking forward to Folly the daft sheep, Solly the Jewish sheep, Bolly the classy sheep, Collie, the sheep that thinks it’s a sheepdog, and so forth. What a sad waste of names.

And, of course, of cutlets.