It was humid, hot and getting hotter and the Shaun the Sheep movie had been out a week. I'd talked the oldest into avoiding the Fantastic Four movie in favor of Ant Man. The air conditioning would be nice.
The kids had worked well the week before and there was just one chore left to do before showering and lunch.
When it is time to move sheep from one paddock to another, the oldest, the sheep, and I have developed a rhythm. Even managing two new ewes, the job was little more than a hassle, but one ram lamb, "Hurricane," refused to dance to the tune we were calling. From where I stood, I could see he had a nasty limp.
Otto penned him up while we closed gates and counted heads but the bad news was waiting for me when I got there: his right rear foot was flopping as he hobbled.
The break was fresh. The lamb voiced no distress and there was no infection yet but it was obvious and severe. He had to be in pain. Infection would be coming. There would be no recovery.
He had been destined for the butcher's block in another two months anyway, but we had plans; but I had not mentally prepared myself to do *that* job on this day.
We were, in the end fortunate. I did not have to lecture the children about the virtue of improv: my mother was up visiting and was happy to take them to the movies. They all got some ice cream to boot.
Me, I had a beer for lunch and went to work.
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