Strolling to the main rua of my tiny village I was almost run down by a large sheep. The poor thing was trotting at a brisk pace, obviously out of its element and looking for home. Each corner it passed it paused for a brief moment, I imagined hopeful for a sign saying “to pasture”.
The closest herd of sheep lives just up the hill, past the church toward the ocean. We see them with their shepherd, who is usually on his cell phone when we hike to the cliffs. This sheep was going in the opposite direction.
Even after close to two years of rural living, I still am thrilled to hear roosters crow from my casa and enjoy when our bus has to pull over to let a herd of sheep and goats pass. We are, though we know nothing about it, managing to grow a sem-chemical garden. Well, the spinach survived, thrived and took over the entire plot, good thing we like spinach.
It was a special thrill, for me not the sheep, to see this poor guy running around avoiding being caught with the agility of the best running back in the major leagues. I hope some of the old men that sit in front of the recreation center have the shepherd’s cell phone number. If not, someone has a very nice new sheep, or dinner.
This is where he belongs, I am certain his friends miss him.