Dot

Her name was Dot. Just a sheep to most, I reckon. But not to me. She was the first lamb I bottle-fed as a lad. Tiny thing, runt of the lot, shouldn’t have made it. But she did. She followed me like a dog. Would come to her name, head-butt my knees if I ignored her. She weren’t a house pet or anything silly like that, but she had a space in the barn where no one else went. That was Dot’s corner. Over the years, she raised some fine lambs. Good mum. Steady. Never panicked during lambing season. She had this way of just knowing. She calmed the other ewes down, like a shepherd in fleece. When she got older and she slowed down. Couldn’t keep up with the rest, so I let her stay by the house. She’d watch me work, chewing her cud like she was judging my technique. She passed lying on her side in the grass one morning. No stress, no mess. My son carved a little wooden marker when we buried her. She was a good sheep. Better than most people I’ve met, truth be told.